Rocky Road to Dublin
by Kagura
Summary: Jareth's shopping for a vacation home in Ireland, and Sarah's acting as the Goblin King's realtor. But when sparks start to fly between boss and employee, houses are the least of their troubles.
1. Chapter 1

There are a few rules that govern every adult woman's life. They keep things neat and tidy, like a well organized file cabinet, or a brand new wallet. Some are work related, some are personal, and some deal strictly with one-night stands. Standard rules, like looking in the mirror before you leave for work, are the most universally recognized. Every female in your general vicinity will instantly know if one has been broken, because they've done it themselves and can empathize (right after they giggle behind their martini glasses).

The rules are not static. They evolve constantly. With each new heartache or ruined dream, a new 'yes' or 'no' is added. Sarah was no different. After enduring three bad relationships, she put rule twenty-three into effect. 'No dating scumbags.' When she quit her second job, rule twenty-four was instated. 'No working for scumbags.'

Just one day after she'd turned twenty-two, rules twenty-five and twenty-six were officially penned down. She stood in her hotel suite's small kitchen, stark raving naked, Sharpie in hand as she drunkenly scribbled them onto a Post-it.

New Rules!

DON'T SLEEP WITH YOUR BOSS.

DON'T SLEEP WITH JARETH.

Unfortunately, like most rules, they were created _after_ they'd already been broken.

And a deliciously naked Goblin King, who smelled a lot like expensive champagne and fresh strawberries, slumbering on her newly christened king-sized bed was certainly a testament to that.

It all began with one very unpleasant farmhouse.

Okay, it started much earlier with a certain trek through the Labyrinth, but that's a story for another time.

* * *

"What about the Maclean house, the one with the finished basement?"

"What on Earth would I ever do with a finished basement? Open a public house and declare myself an innkeeper?"

Sarah sighed, her hands tightening into white-knuckled fists around the steering wheel. It was hard to look huffy in a convertible, but she managed, even as her hair waved in the wind like jet-colored streamers. She could feel Jareth smirking at her from the passenger's seat, his hair probably perfect and well-coiffed. No matter how much she tapped the gas pedal, not a single wheat-blonde strand moved out of place.

"Ronan Hardiman's cottage has dropped nearly ten-thousand dollars since its last showing," she called out impatiently, trying to be heard over the air rushing in her ears. The grassy, sheep covered hills of Ireland passed so quickly all she saw were brief flashes of white on a green backdrop. And yet Jareth's voice could be heard clearly above the din, his smugness so apparent she could nearly smell it. Just like she could smell the sharpness of his cologne against his milk pale skin, against her own skin and on her clothes. Anything he touched smelled like him, like a pine forest in winter, like hot, wrinkle the sheets sex, like –

"Sarah, we're about to pass our exit. Keep your eyes on the road."

It'll all began nearly four weeks earlier. One night, as she was studying for her art history final, Jareth appeared on the doorstep of her tiny Dublin apartment, and haughtily informed her that she was to be his realtor. He was looking for a vacation home in the Aboveground, and since she had destroyed his castle, it was only fair that she be his chauffeur and personal assistant. The fact that he threatened to lock her up in an oubliette until she was nothing but dust sealed the deal.

And now, she was driving a tin can on wheels through East Bumfuck Ireland, with his majesty finding great joy in being irrational and utterly cheeky. Every house she took him to was too big or too small, in areas too isolated or too crowded. With each complaint, she felt more and more sympathetic to the bear family in the tale of Goldilocks. They were quite content until some blond twit showed up, making unreasonable demands as she intruded on their perfectly content lives. Mama Bear should've just eaten the bitch.

Casting a quick, murderous glance at her traveling companion, Sarah groused, "But you didn't want to see the Fitzgerald farmhouse. It was too out of the way or something."

To which Jareth replied, "I've changed my mind. Now turn left or we'll have to swing back around this evening, and who knows how long that'll take. We'll miss our dinner reservations."

"No, _you'll_ miss your dinner reservation. I am going back to the hotel, where a hot bath and a 'do not disturb' sign are eagerly waiting for me," she replied as she made the appropriate left turn, the wheels of the small coupe crunching loudly on the unpaved road. Pebbles and twigs shot up into the undercarriage like miniature landmines.

"Of course you will Precious. Now I think you should wear a cocktail dress, perhaps that little purple number. The color turns your eyes to emeralds. It goes well your jeweled sandals."

Precious.

Dear.

Love.

She was only Sarah when he was angry or chiding her. Otherwise, he addressed her directly, or used an affectionate pet name. Which was annoying as all hell. It was so very posh and British, and after living nearly two years in Dublin, she'd learned to hate all things English, if only to have something in common with her neighbors. But giving her little loving nicknames wasn't enough for Jareth. He had to use them in front of other people, like the time at this teeny pub, when the hostess assumed they were married because he kept calling her sweetheart. His arm slung carelessly around her waist probably didn't help.

It seemed like Jareth enjoyed it when people mistook them for a couple. He'd pull her to his side, give her his best boyfriend smile, and she'd have to play along just to keep from making a scene. She'd flirt and banter, because he was the Goblin King, an infinitely powerful and menacing entity, and making a scene would only lead to despair.

That's why she consented to sharing rooms also. Yep. Just to keep from making a scene. She didn't find him attractive, nope, no sir. Being near to him wasn't a turn on, not at all. It was a turn off. She only felt like fucking him half the time so he would shut up, not because she expected the ride of her life. Uh-uh. Jareth was bad, very bad.

Bad and decadent, like the last sliver of chocolate cake, just waiting to be gobbled up, or licked clean from head to toe…

'_No!'_ she scolded her disobedient and very dirty thoughts. _'It's bad enough that you got shit faced and told him you'd do him in a heartbeat if he weren't the Goblin King! Don't think of Jareth naked. Don't think of Jareth naked. Don't think of – '_

"If your plan to defeat me is to drive into that tree, I must tell you that the only person getting into an accident is _you_. Besides, you just passed the driveway."

Automatically, her foot slammed on the brake pedal, which wasn't a very good idea, considering she was in third gear. The engine stalled, turning off completely as she fought with the emergency brake.

"God damn it, I hate this fucking car!" she shouted as she yanked on the stick shift. "Why the fuck did you pick this thing?"

He laughed. The bastard _laughed_, patting her bare knee as he sagely said "Only the best for you, my sweet. I saw you eyeing the Porsche, so I picked it. You must admit, it's absolutely gorgeous."

Okay, so he was right about that. The beige convertible, with its butterscotch leather interior and black ragtop was speedy and very sexy. Unfortunately, it had been around since before Germany invaded Poland during World War II, and most likely drove some Nazi higher ups. And the fucking thing had the temper of a wild Mustang in heat.

"We should've gotten the Jeep," Sarah hissed as she finally jerked the lever back into neutral, foot at the ready on the clutch as she revved the engine back to life. It sputtered for a few minutes, but was otherwise silent as she shifted into reverse. With her head twisted all the way over her shoulder, she could see the Farmer Fitzgerald's mail box, and the ad swinging beneath it. Somebody had scrawled 'for sail' on a piece of cardboard with a bright blue crayon. Always a good sign.

Inch by meager inch, the Porsche moved backwards, and then she was forcing her way into first gear. The car had a tight turning radius, so getting into the driveway was a piece of cake… um, it was easy. Real easy.

"What a charming little abode," Jareth intoned airily as they parked on a patch of tall grass, since every other spot was soaked and muddy. And no, it wasn't a 'charming abode'. It was shack held together with nothing but hope and a prayer. The thatch roof was sagging, and the front door was missing. There was just an old tabletop leaning against the posts, and it missed the lintel by a good six inches.

The look on Sarah's face said it all. The house was a shit hole, or maybe a meth lab starter kit. It was all wrong for Jareth. But before she could hightail it back to the car, the Goblin King tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and marched her to the doorstep. Like a proper gentleman, he tapped three times on the door substitute, waiting with a smile as someone inside stumbled their way to the front hall.

What had to be old Farmer Fitzgerald dragged the wooden slab into the house, muttering all sorts of colorful works under his breath. He was older than water, one of his milky green eyes covered with a leather eye patch, while a cane kept him from blowing away in a strong wind; and, good Lord, boy did he look pissed to see them. His thin, gnarled mouth nearly disappeared as he frowned at them. Not that she blamed him. She'd frown at the pair she and Jareth made.

At the last place they visited, a passing biddy shook her head disapprovingly, loudly telling her husband that lay-about Londoners were taking over their charming village, and that soon, every Catholic in Ireland would be forced into concentration camps. Sarah winced, while Jareth beamed, his hand finding hers as they walked down the promenade. She had to admit, they looked like quintessential yuppies. Jareth insisted on wearing custom Italian creations, and to keep from looking like a bum, she wore dainty sundresses or ballerina skirts. Today was no different. Jareth chose charcoal woolen slacks and a blue cardigan that enhanced the sharpness of his features, while she barely kept up in a black pencil skirt and ivory blouse.

"Whatcha want?" Farmer Fitzgerald mumbled, his nose raised in a sneer. If looks could kill, they'd be buried by now. But Sarah only smiled, informing him that they were house hunting, and had seen his ad on a corkboard in their hotel's lobby. He grunted and motioned for them to come in, saying "Poke around all ye like, but don't take nothin'. I'll be tending me flock now. Won't be back 'til evening comes. Ye better be scattered by then."

Oh, they'd be scattered all right. They'd be scattered all the way back to Blackburn Inn, and eventually back to Dublin, if the gods could stop laughing at her for just one blasted second. Seriously, weren't there other runners to entertain Jareth? Managing an entire kingdom required a king, didn't it?

"Come darling," Jareth said as he guided her into the house. "Let's see if the master bedroom is big enough for our mattress."

"Really, Jareth?" she muttered under her breath even as she offered Farmer Fitzgerald a megawatt, Ms. America smile. "This place is a dump. Let's cut our losses and go to lunch or something. We both know you aren't going to pick this place."

Jareth clucked disapprovingly, pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger as he condescendingly shook his head. "Now now, darling, we've only seen the foyer. Never judge a book by its cover."

"How about judging a book by its odor? It smells like the Bog of Eternal Stench," she whispered, keeping her grin in place as Farmer Fitzgerald stumbled by them, mumbling about townie bastards and their slag American girlfriends. Sarah waited until he'd circled out of view, before giving Jareth a piece of her mind. Quite a few pieces actually.

"I know three things about this house, Jareth, and I don't even have to look for some goddamn master bedroom. It stinks of horses and goats, the roof is moldy, and there's no front door. Can we just go already?" When Jareth tightened his hold on her waist, his hand caressing her hip, she nearly lost it. Yet she didn't try to move away, not even an inch. Stupid hormones. As soon as they got back to Dublin… no, as soon as she saw a handsome, unattached man, she was going to jump his bones and ride him like a show pony. Yeah, that seemed like a good idea. A great idea.

Jareth was handsome and unattached…

'_No! Bad Sarah! Don't start that again!'_

* * *

Ooh, his little kitten was absolutely furious! Anger darkened her eyes until they were nearly black. Arousal could do the same thing, and if he moved his hand just a few inches, he'd be cupping her derriere, which was molded quite alluringly in that tight skirt. Beneath it, she was probably wearing something lacy and barely there, something he could easily nudge aside in search of hotter pleasures.

It was the only reason Jareth forewent gloves in this iron saturated hell. The chance at an impromptu seduction was one he hardly wanted to miss, even if Sarah rebuffed his advances time and time again. That was alright though. She nearly quivered with trepidation whenever he was near, only to turn still as stone whenever he touched her. Never did she try to worm out of his arms, though she did protest to his little love names for her. She thought he was teasing her whenever he used some endearment, and in a way he was. Seeing her get all hot and bothered proved that she was affected by him. Whether positively and negatively was yet to be seen (although she wasn't an idle participant in their idle flirtation).

"Even still, let's take a stroll before we scratch it off our list," he quipped impudently as he pulled her along. She followed mutely, tethered to some invisible leash she gave him the moment he roped her into this ridiculous endeavor.

His plan was one rooted in revenge, boredom, and complete adoration. He wanted her to fear him, love him, do as he said, so that he could be her slave. So far, he had fear and obedience down, not that he expected it to last. Not that he wanted it to. The only thing that mattered was garnering her affection, and eventually her love.

House hunting was simply a rouse to spend time with her, time that would reveal his positive aspects, like his desire to listen to her opinion and seek her counsel. There were several homes he had considered buying, but while she agreed they were lovely, she would also say they weren't her taste. 'That's just my opinion. If you like the house, buy it.' He would only buy a house she loved, a house where they could relax, far from the Goblin kingdom.

But first… it was time to yank her chain a little bit.

"I have more than enough magic to make this house smell like a field of wildflowers, if that is what you wish. Or perhaps those apple cinnamon muffins you gobble down whenever you come across them." Muffins that he made appear (by magic) whenever she looked famished.

Sarah scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward, but went along with him nonetheless, examining the house room by room. Considering there was just a kitchenette, dining room, and what may have been a bedroom (there was a bed, but chickens were roosting on it), their search didn't take long. He allowed Sarah to drag him back to the door, but he wasn't quite done.

"It's a fixer-upper," he pondered aloud as he rubbed his chin, looking so very thoughtful. "But it's nothing my goblins can't make better."

"Fuck your goblins and buy a better house." Sarah wrenched herself from his grasp, stomping back to the car with her elegant hands fisted at her sides. She wore ornery very well, but her real coat was made of kindness, empathy, and gumption.

The sway of her hips was as welcoming as home-cooked comfort food, only he felt that welcome a few degrees south of his belly. He hoped that she was just as willful and defiant in bed as she was in real life. Lying with a cold fish would be most disappointing. If her passion and anger were anything to go by, however, he knew she would be more than a handful. She would most likely be the dominant party. But that was just fine. He _did_ want to be her slave.

"I suppose your right," he replied as he sauntered back to the Porsche, taking his seat with catlike grace. _'But I can think of something else I'd like to fuck.' _He could only grin as Sarah struggled with the complicated manual transmission. She either fought with the clutch or couldn't figure out how to get into neutral. It was another ten minutes before they were left, and Sarah was swearing up a storm until they were back on the main road.

Then she was silent, all fiery determination and frazzled nerves as she haphazardly navigated their way back to Blackburn Inn. She swerved, drifted, and routinely exceeded the speeding limit. As terrifying as driving with Sarah was, it gave Jareth the perfect opportunity to study his downfall. She had lost and gained weight in all the appropriate places, sporting curves that would turn even the most celebrated courtesan green with envy. Most of her lustrous black locks had been cut until the ends barely reached chin, but there was nothing wrong with that. It added to her wildness, her savage sharpness he found so alluring. There was a certain masculine flair about her, an edge that said 'I won't wait around for someone to save me'.

"What time do you want to leave tomorrow?" she said unexpectedly as she pulled into the cobblestoned parking lot of their accommodations. He hadn't realized they'd arrived, but he recovered quickly.

"Whenever you are awake and refreshed. I can only assume you'll need rest if we want to celebrate your birthday." The look she shot him was venomous and red hot.

Oh yes, her birthday. Now _there_ was a sore spot. The first time he brought it up, she just brushed it off. There were just as many Thanksgivings as there were birthdays, and she celebrated neither. Then he mentioned it again and again over the three weeks they'd spent together. He was just waiting for her to blow up. When she did, he'd soothe her back to sanity with sapphires and cashmere, two things she adored but didn't have the budget for. Then he'd coax her into his bed, softly declare his intentions, and life would be infinitely better for him.

Humans were lucky. For them, love came once in a while. For the Fae, it came once in a lifetime. For Jareth, it came in the form of the stubborn, green-eyed girl he gave up once, but never would again.

"For the millionth time, _Jareth_," she hissed as she wobbled her way to the front door. "We aren't doing anything. We are looking for a house together, and that's it." She sucked in a breath and turned startled eyes on him. "I mean, you're looking for a house for us. No, I'm helping you find our house. I mean…!"

Jareth played the innocent card, arching a brow as he brushed his way past her. "We'll make time for your birthday still. You only turn twenty-two once." He felt her glare burning his ears as he walked away, but it only widened the smug, self-satisfied smile on his face. Sarah could be flippant all she wanted, but he knew that she'd begun thinking of them as 'us' as opposed to 'you and I.'

At six-thirty, they were quietly eating dinner in the inn's very small pub. It was respectable at best, with fishing gear on the walls and pictures of old seadogs in pageboy hats and knit sweaters. The food was adequate, by Irish standards, but both Sarah and Jareth were only comfortable with shepherd's pie and tall glasses of Guinness. Sarah was completely quiet, calm and sedate as she browsed through several local newspapers, looking for houses in the classified sections. Her silence was companionable, and Jareth found pleasure in knowing that she wasn't ignoring him. She just wasn't talking. However, that was the only thing that gave him pleasure.

Sarah was a lovely young woman, and every man around her knew it. They eyed her bare legs and pawed her chest with their hungry eyes, leering and licking their lips as if he weren't there. They were a ghastly lot, a group of drunken, mottled prunes, so he paid them no heed; but the bartender was anything but homely. The man was young and healthy, his shoulders broad and chest wide. Thick biceps muscles bulged and rippled under his blue t-shirt, and his eyes, his _plain_ brown eyes, were fixed on the curve of Sarah's jaw.

Night after night, he fed Sarah drinks, which she resolutely ignored, usually because they were brightly colored, needlessly garnished with fruit, and sickly sweet like antifreeze. Sarah liked one drink, Guinness, and Jareth was always the first to offer her one.

"There are a few places west of here that look promising, and two of them are even on the coast… but one of them is on a bluff." Her jade eyes were bright and hopeful as she looked up at him, and he found himself aroused by the slight smudging of eyeliner beneath her lower lashes. She was tired and tousled, like a woman going out for breakfast after a thorough tryst.

"Tell me about the one on the bluff." Before she could even blink, he pulled her reading glasses out his pant pocket (by magic), handing them to her, just to see her smile. She did, and it was both grateful and baffled. After slipping on her oval, wire framed spectacles, Sarah picked up the paper, flicked it open officially, and began reciting facts with the efficiency of a switchboard operator.

"It's fifteen-hundred square feet," she began, completely involved in working out the best descriptions. As she listed detail after detail, she became more and more engrossed in doing her job, which was catering to his needs. Seeing that she was distracted, his slid his right foot out of its very expensive Italian loafer, and put it right where it belonged.

On her ankle.

His toes caressed her bare skin, and she choked halfway through her sentence, staring at him as if he'd grown a second head. He just smiled back, sliding his foot over a line of muscle running along her calf to her knee. Even through his Egyptian cotton sock, he could feel goose bumps rising.

The gods were clearly on his side, because just as she opened her mouth to reprimand him, they were interrupted by the thick-necked bartender. His good looks mattered not, as, above all else, Sarah was afraid of making a scene.

* * *

Jareth was playing footsies.

Playing. Footsies.

With _her_.

His toes, surprisingly hot despite his trouser sock, curved over the instep of her foot, drifting here and there with no particular destination. They massaged her calves, her shins, anywhere they could reach. And, goddamn it, it felt really good. Lust began to pool hot and heavy between her legs, until she was shifting just to keep her skirt dry. More embarrassingly, a hearty blush made its way up her throat, burning red hot when his foot slithered up and past her knee, gently tickling her inner thigh. The hem of her skirt got caught on his ankle, and when it moved up, so did the skirt, until it was bunched around her hips. The table wasn't even two feet wide! How the fuck could his torso be so still when his legs were now interlocked with hers? It had to have been magic.

"Good evenin' miss," a deep Irish brogue called from her, as warm and sweet as hot chocolate. "I brought you a nice screw between the sheets. All premium liquor, of course." His tone turned cold as ice. "And here's your beer."

She knew who he was talking to. But Jareth was a little bit busy, and so was she, because all of a sudden those very talented toes were brushing the scalloped edges of her lacy underwear, alternately pressing and gliding over the crease where hip met thigh. In a few inches he'd be…

Oh God.

Oh _wow_, that felt really nice.

Hmm…

Why was she afraid of him again?

Her eyelashes lowered, and something sharp but sweet pulsed through her veins, leaving her sluggish and sagging in her seat.

When she lost her virginity to her first boyfriend, Jimmy Phillips (star quarterback and scumbag number one), she thought of Jareth singing to her, holding her, because it sucked that hard. It was over in three minutes, and those three minutes weren't even in the same weight class as the reality of Jareth's touch. And that was only his foot! She could only imagine what the rest of him would feel like.

'_No! No! Snap out of it! This is one foot away from rape! I'm pretty sure there's a rule about this!'_ some traitorous part of her mind protested, jumping up and down on a soap box. It was almost certainly something silly like logic or self-preservation. But it was loud enough to break Jareth's web, and then she was pissed (as well as in need of some new undies).

"How many times do I have to tell you?" she hissed at the bartender, misdirecting all her rage at the poor man. "All I want it a glass of Guinness in a proper fucking stein!"

Jareth's foot retreated, and boy did she feel unfulfilled, like she was in proper need of… filling. Certain parts more than others. One hand shot down to her skirt, pulling it back to her knees. Conjuring up the scariest glare she could, Sarah snatched up her purse, slammed a few dollars on the table, and stomped off to her room with a surprising level of dignity.

At least, with all the dignity of a woman whose thighs were glued together.

Where was that hot bath and 'do not enter' sign?

* * *

The moment his toes encountered the slickness just beneath the center of her lacy and barely-there underwear (god, he was good), he felt his body rise to attention, his ego rising when Sarah ignored the younger, and _somewhat_ handsome bartender. Then her pupils dilated with lust, her legs parting in invitation. Oh yes, he had her, even as she marched away in a huff.

He loved that spell, the one that gave him the room to stretch out under the table. It was nicknamed 'The Iceberg'. It played on the old saying 'the tip of the iceberg,' which, literally, was just the small, visible part. What lied below the water was massive by comparison. The spell turned the tabletop into the tip of the iceberg, and beneath it was an area much bigger than it should've been.

"You do realize that my _wife_ hasn't so much as sipped anything you've brought her, don't you?" He wielded the word wife as a weapon, fending off the advances of the Irishman with total success. The bartender blushed, hung his head and shuffled back to the counter, and that was only the half of it. Every man in the restaurant was now very interested in their meals, eyes pinned to their plates as Jareth strutted after Sarah, chin up and shoulders thrown back.

As expected, she was in their room, already in a bulky set of flannel pajamas. She scrubbed at her teeth so vigorously he feared for her enamel.

"Is something wrong, Sarah?" he asked innocuously while he perched on the edge of their bed, stripping off his sweater slower than necessary. He wasn't wearing anything beneath it.

Sarah snarled at him, bearing her teeth as she spat out, "What part of no don't you understand?"

"The same part that you don't. Every time I touch you, it takes you quite a while to recoil," he said as he lay back onto the mattress, his long, sinewy arms crossed beneath his head. He fingered the short strands of his hair, missing the longer panels only slightly. "We should just sleep together and get it over with. You know you want to. You know _I_ want to."

"You are my boss, and, unless my memory needs a tune-up, you threatened to lock me up if I didn't go along with your ridiculous plan." She started to scrub off her makeup with a rough sponge soaked in hot, soapy water.

He had the grace to wince at his less than charming request. The night he finally approached her, she had just exited the car of a young man who'd obviously just received a goodnight kiss. Jealousy prompted him to demand her obedience, and surprisingly, he received it.

"I've already asked you to forgive me. I will not do it again. I will, however, make it up to you whenever you're ready." He heard a splash as she dropped the sponge.

"In your dreams, buddy."

Jareth grinned.

"And in your dreams too, precious. In your dreams too."

* * *

Damn it! She forgot he could read her mind and see her dreams, which usually starred an undressed Goblin King.

"Listen," she snapped as she flopped down on her side of the bed, sliding under the covers until only her head was visible. "You're sexy. You know that. But you don't have to throw it in my face all the time."

In the blink of an eye, he was dressed for bed in a pair of silk pajamas. The shirt was completely unbuttoned, and while she should've complained, she just couldn't. The view was simply too nice. He was a bit lean for her tastes, but his chest was smooth and hairless, with a perfect layer of muscle beneath his marble skin. Mmm…

"I will stop 'throwing it in your face' when you stop throwing _your_ good looks in my face," he countered as he pulled the covers down, stretching out beside her. Instantly, the temperature shot down more than ten degrees, because in a flash her face was freezing, protective tears prickling her eyes.

"Oh you bastard," she seethed as she pressed her face into her pillow. "Not this again." Her voice was muffled, but still terse enough to get the point across. "I do NOT want to snuggle, so would you please make it warm again?"

"Sarah, Sarah, Sarah," he chided (see?), rolling over until he was facing her. She cocked her head just enough to peer at him through one eye, though she probably shouldn't have. He looked too good, too sex tousled with his shortened hair falling over his forehead. If she _had_ to choose, she preferred his usual long, chopped-into hairstyle, but this was nice. It made him softer, more approachable.

And he was speaking to her.

_Shit_. What was he saying?

"I missed that," she murmured softly, still looking at him through one eye.

His Majesty laughed, relaxing into his down pillow as he gazed at her with what she would've called warmth, had it been anyone but Jareth.

"My castle is a drafty place, love, but I've grown used to it. I find it hard to sleep without the cold."

"And I prefer keeping my temperature at a non-hypothermic level. Can we have some sort of compromise?"

His response was to lift the blankets between them and stretch his silk covered arm out, a clear invitation to curl up against his chest. She already knew his skin was warm, but nice girls with experience under their belt knew better than to trust gorgeous men. So she turned over, presenting her back as she settled in for a miserably cold night.

The day's driving, walking, and emotional struggles caught up with her despite the temperature. She was so tired, and sleep was a blessed respite that found her quickly; but as her lashes lowered to her cheeks, she felt the body next to her inch closer, until warm air ruffled the shorn locks over the base of her skull. He made no move to touch her, which was somewhat disappointing.

Prickly as she acted, his coy teasing and affectionate lies were starting to get to her, so much that she didn't mind his foot between her thighs, or the fact that he slept too close to her.

Truth be told, if he wrapped his arms around her, she'd let him.

She'd let him do anything.

* * *

As all of the tension knotting Sarah's muscles slackened away, Jareth dropped his overt flirtatiousness, allowing himself to just enjoy her closeness. She was so near to giving in. It had been like this for three weeks. He'd pull her in until she was just out of reach, only to lose her inches away from the finish line. Three days into their adventure, she admitted that she was sexually attracted to him. Her candor surprised and delighted him. That was his Sarah, always saying too much, too soon. But then she backpedaled and warned him to stay away. There were rules that couldn't be broken, she said.

Her hair though, it smelled vanilla, and pooled like rare ink despite its lacking length. He knew it was slick raw silk, cool and slippery in his hands.

One kiss, just one kiss didn't hurt, so he pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear, lingering for a long moment. Reluctantly, he drew back, calling to mind the little fairy that started his quest for Sarah's affections.

At any rate, he _thought_ she was a fairy.

* * *

_Although the rock faces lining the chasm hadn't seen any runner besides Sarah in hundreds of years, they were a fairly routine occurrence. There were a grand total of eleven books still in existence. Four were circulating through Eurasia, with one rarely leaving Russia. Three could always be found in the Orient, with the text always changing to suit the different countries it entered. A society of witches in Salem kept two under lock and key at all times, never to be seen by the general public. Father McNally, a fae Halfling, had one hidden away with the other gifts his fairy mother left the night she abandoned him at an Irish orphanage. And one, one would always belong to Sarah Williams. It was handwritten, bound and pressed by Jareth, a wondrous gift for her and her alone. _

_At any given time, someone was taking the book literally, usually someone gullible or naïve. This time, a young French girl had wished away her newborn sister. As she passed by one of the fountains in the hedge mage, she threw the entire contents of her wallet in, thinking purchased wishes would help her. They wouldn't, but in addition to several paper bills, she threw in an old musket ball. Where she found it was a mystery, but even that small bit of iron had the power to poison his entire water system; and cruel as Jareth was, he would never do anything to jeopardize the lives of the Labyrinth's inhabitants, save for the occasional goblin._

_As King of the Labyrinth, removing hazardous materials was his job, so after the runner went on her not so merry way, he appeared at the edge of the artificial spring, dragon hide gloves covering him from fingertip to elbow._

"_I hate the French," he groaned as he tentatively reached down into the murky water. This particular fountain hadn't work in years; hence the water was stagnant with rotting vegetation and mud. But several lily pads sported healthy pink blooms, where several jewel toned dragonflies were roosting, so there was no fear of a mosquito infestation. Of all the horrible creatures in the world, mosquitoes were one of the few completely banned in the Goblin Kingdom. _

"_I think that girl needs a minotaur or two sent after her." Anything monstrous, he thought as he groped around through the layers of mulch and dirt, eyes closed in concentration. Iron was as dangerous to him as arsenic and molten steel. Picking it up with his bare hands would both poison and burn him. "The Bog of Stench could use some new denizens."_

"_You're in love."_

_Yes he was, but that was beside the point._

"_No, it's the point entirely."_

_Ah, so the voice wasn't in his head. In that case, he was being rude by not addressing it directly. It only took a moment to find the voice's owner. A very small something was sitting on a lotus blossom. She had the torso, head and arms of a beautiful woman, but the legs of a striped frog. She was even crouched like a frog, her hands propped on her muscular, slimy thighs._

"_Why are you here? You're in love. Shouldn't you be wooing your intended?" she questioned as she wove her brown curls into a plaited crown. Jareth peered at her for a minute, trying to conjure a name, but there wasn't one to be found in his memory._

"_Shouldn't you be wearing a shirt?" he retorted, still groping for the bullet. "It can't be comfortable, baring your breasts to the world."_

_She shrugged, gesturing to a sleeping bullfrog at her left as she said, "My husband is more than capable of protecting me. Besides, I'm in no discomfort now. The weather is splendid. Is it your doing?"_

"_It is," he told her, his fingers finding the iron piece after a few more blind swipes. "So the frog is your husband?"_

_She laughed lightly. "I do not lie with frogs. By night, he's a riverweed pixie. Now, who is this woman you think of with both anger and adoration?"_

"_Have you a name, frog maiden?" Speaking of Sarah only opened freshly healed wounds, so distracting the diminutive sprite was the only way to escape unharmed._

"_Orla," she said promptly. "And my husband is Ivar." But she was not to be dissuaded. "Is it the raven-haired bird, Sarah? You did seem awfully jealous of her easy relationship with the dwarf. Why else would something as silly as a kiss between friends bother you?"_

_Jareth rolled the small iron ball in his hands, brushing away the muck. He pretended to be studying the offensive, deadly item, but he was really considering the little frog sprite's words. He did love Sarah. Everyone saw. Several times, he'd gone wondering through the Labyrinth, looking for traces of his lady love. To date, he'd only collected a small ring, some cheap metal creation with an imitation ruby. Hoggy's plastic thing 'round his wrist was next._

"_There isn't going to be another," she continued on, her surprisingly deep voice disapproving. "I was lucky to find my Ivar. Fae have soul mates, but we rarely find them."She bowed as best she could in her crouched position, bunching the muscles in her amphibian legs in preparation to jump._

_Right before she leapt away, she left this word of warning._

"_Humans have expiration dates. Snatch Sarah up before hers looms closer."_

* * *

Okay, so this is going to be a short story in three parts, not a long one-shot.

I'm a liar.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning passed quickly. There were phone calls, packed suitcases and rail tickets. It was time to ditch the Nazi mobile for a quick train ride to the coast. Or it would've been a quick ride, were it not for the fucking thunderstorm that had them stopped in the middle of nowhere. The train, under orders from mission control, Houston maybe, was parked, hoping to wade out the storm. But lots of rain meant lots of mud, so there was no hope of going anywhere. This was a bad thing, as a trapped Jareth was a caged Jareth, and no one, not even God, could cage Jareth.

He paced anxiously through their small cabin, wearing a little path in the red carpet. They had ordered a suite, expecting lush accommodations. What they got was a cupboard with a lumpy full-sized bed shoved against the wall, and a bedside table nailed to the floor. They had a private bathroom, but it sucked. Hard. It gave new meaning to the term 'water closet.'

"Why isn't this infernal machine working?" he barked for the nth time. His ire was unmatched, and downright hilarious. Sarah had no problem with the rain. She just put on a pair of sweats and curled up on the bed, some trashy romance novel in hand. Her feet hurt too much to do anything else. High heels were dangerous, ridiculous contraptions.

Small and sterile as the room was, it was bigger and nicer than her first dorm at college. She flipped a page, not looking at him as she retorted, "It's hard for engineers to work in the driving rain. We have plenty of water and food, and you can magic anything you want. Stop walking back and forth already. If your feet ache half as much as mine, you should sit down and watch something on the television." Which was bolted to the wall and received exactly three stations. No, wait, two. The third one was fuzzy.

He was quiet for a moment, before curiously asking, "Your feet are sore?"

She nodded absently, her book too engrossing to ignore. She was already at the point where the Viking ravaged the Swan Princess. It was all sorts of rough loving, nearly verging on pornography. But hey, sex was sex, and this was the closest she'd gotten to it after scumbag number three dumped her four months ago.

"Why have you not said anything before?" his Majesty asked, the bed dipping as he joined her. He would've made a great danseur noble, having pulled a one-minute costume change from his three-piece suit, to a soft pair of flannel pants and a cashmere sweater.

Her answer was honest, but carelessly given. "I didn't want you to worry." She really didn't. When Jareth worried, he started to hover, kind of like scumbag number two's pushy Jewish mother. She wanted Sarah to convert, because her little boy needed a good wife, but Sarah was quite happy being a lapse Catholic. Not only that, but his mother was kosher, so every time Sarah looked at a ham sandwich, it was like Jareth was massaging her foot.

Hold on. Jareth _was_ massaging her foot.

"What are you doing?" she breathed as she turned wide green eyes on the Goblin King. Jareth had her foot propped on his lap, his fingers kneading her tired, tense arch. He eyed her pink painted toenails, a quirky smile lighting his eyes as he acted like the perfect boyfriend. His hands were sweet but firm, and so very hot. It was surprising how high his temperature ran. It was also a turn on.

"Your feet hurt. This should help." He was right. It did help with the pain, more than he knew. Gone was her stress, little tingles warming her skin the same way candy apples burned her mouth. But candy apples didn't make her feel like raping him. Though he'd probably enjoy it. Screw probably, he _would_ enjoy it. Maybe not as much as she would, but he'd still have a good time.

She'd pretty much told him so.

* * *

_Sarah didn't like liquor too much. She wasn't a very good drinker, and she didn't like being drunk. Being drunk only led to bad things, like sleeping with scumbag number three, Declan Malone, while she was still dating scumbag number two. Furthermore, she was a nerd. Nerds were not fun drunks. They got into arguments about whether or not all goblins were part of the Unseelie court. Long arguments that ended in crying and broken friendships._

_Fucking Mary McGregor. Goblins __**were**__ part of the Unseelie court, but they weren't all bad. Bitch._

_As bad as she was at being drunk, getting drunk wasn't the issue. Especially when a very sexy Goblin King was doing shots of Jameson with her. Later on, she'd realize that he'd really been downing ice tea. Because that's just how Jareth rolled. He capitalized on the fact that she was a friendly drunk, remembering the story of how she practically gave scumbag number three a lap dance. No, they weren't playing strip poker, but they weren't exactly dressed. _

_Somehow, they'd ended up on the floor just in front of her couch, their shoes, socks, jackets and sweaters scattered all around the room. Jareth, being a fan of layers, still had on his shirt and pants. Sarah, completely drunk and lacking laundry money, was nearly naked in a pair of lime green panties and a pink camisole. She wasn't wearing a bra, and the room was kind of cold. Where her bra had gone was a mystery, one that needed prompt solving, considering that busty girls needed all the support they could afford._

"_You… you're terrible, you know that?" she slurred as she raised another glass of whiskey to her mouth. She winced as it burned its Irish way down her stomach, resting her head against Jareth's shoulder when the room started to whirl. Her whole apartment had been stuck on 'spin cycle' since shot number three._

"_No, I don't," he chuckled as he finger the blunt ends of her bob. The short hairstyle was one of necessity, the product of a bad breakup. It was a stereotypical ex-boyfriend cut, but Jareth seemed to dig it. A lot. Like, he kept nosing the spot right behind her ear, where her perfume mingled with the fragrance of her vanilla shampoo. "Why don't you tell me?"_

_Sarah's hands were bent on misbehaving, because one migrated to his thigh while the other poured him a drink. In the glass she'd just used. Kissing cups weren't just for the Romans. However, did she really have to lift it up and press it against his lips? And did he really have to let her tip the alcohol into his mouth, that wicked blue-brown gaze fixed on her face? Was that lust, or was she really that drunk?_

"_Absolutely terrible. And I'd still sleep with you!" His eyebrows shot into his hair, but his grin was positively smug. And sexy. "Oh yeah," she nodded. "I'd completely rock your world. Sideways. I'd rock you sideways."_

"_Sideways, hmm?" He did the nose nuzzle thing, his breath misting over her earlobe. His tongue would probably feel even better. "And where does one pick up that trick? Your library __**is**__ very extensive."_

"_Huh-uh. Nope, no book. Personal experience." His face went cold at that, his arm wrapping around her waist so tightly it hurt. Hurt so good. Come on baby, make it hurt so good. "Scumbag number two helped me with it. He was a total freak in bed. Something about rebelling against his mother."_

"_My darling, you are completely inebriated, so you won't remember this tomorrow," he paused to look at her confused, glassy eyes. "But there will be no more scumbags or rebellious little boys. I may not have been your first, which we will talk about later, but I will be your last."_

_That part she probably just drunkenly thought up. He wouldn't say shit like that. It was so easy, dreaming that he wanted to be exclusive with her. So easy, in fact, that it didn't take much effort to imagine herself kissing him. Her drunken dream self slid her mouth under his, urging him to come out and play with the insistent pressure of her teeth nibbling his lower lip. He met her blow for blow, fisting his hands in her stylishly short hair as his tongue swept over hers. She had enough control of her faculties to straddle his hips, draping herself over him like some really desperate housecat. His hands found her ass, smoothing over the softness of her underwear, treating it like fine silk as opposed to ribbed cotton._

_And then she passed out, confirming that the last part of their evening was indeed just a drunken fantasy. Because who in their right mind would seduce their boss in a pair of green undies? _

_Sarah would, that's who!_

* * *

She was nervous, he could feel it emanating from her, but she wasn't skirting away. Her unease was palpable, as was her interest. She didn't know how expressive she was, his Sarah, even when he couldn't see her face.

The memory of her impassioned, whiskey flavored kiss set a craving in his blood. He needed to touch her, even if it was just her feet. Her poor, tired feet that hurt because he made her walk from their hotel to the train station. Though it was her fault. She kept complaining about the car, when her pain was nothing compared to his. There was iron _everywhere_, and most of the time he felt like dying. Now they were stuck on a train, and she was utterly comfortable, save for her feet.

Sap that he was, however, he couldn't stand the thought of her in any pain. It wasn't easy, keeping his hands on her foot and foot only. Her legs were freshly shaven from toe to hip, smooth and soft from the lotion she used. He didn't know the name of the salve, but it had a light, sweet, almost pink scent. On any other woman, it would be a childish fragrance, but on Sarah, it was playful and beckoning.

Moving with all the quickness and urgency of cold honey, Sarah sat up, tossing her book on the pillow next to her. She tilted her head at an odd angle, so she could cast him a sideways glance. He knew what that look in her eye meant, and it was downright arousing. There was false bravado, lust and reprimand in those green gems. 'It's a piece of cake,' it said. Really. Then how about upping the stakes?

"Why are you single, Sarah?" he asked casually, brutally. "I know that you've had past relationships, and they can't have all been horrible." Even though he wished they were.

Her eyes widened before dropping to her lap, a tired sigh slipping from her lips as she rubbed her palms over her thighs. "No they weren't. I haven't dated a lot, but… no one ever fought for me." The disappointment he heard was anything but misplaced. Of course Sarah would want a knight. How she hadn't found one yet was a blessing. "There were a few times when I would meet someone nice, but wanted to take things slow. Rather than push for something more, they'd give up."

_I won't give up_, he wanted to tell her. With his history though, he would probably phrase it incorrectly, and therefore induce her wrath. Instead, he reacted in a manner he'd already mastered. Freeing one of his hands, he hooked his fingers around the back of her neck – with only the slightest pressure, of course – and brought her face closer to his. She was hesitant, but leaned forwards nonetheless.

"Sarah," he admonished. "Never wait for someone to rescue you. It rarely worked in my Labyrinth. It will not work here."

There was only a moment to enjoy her tremulous smile before she was kissing his cheek. It was light and off centered, hitting the skin just beneath his eye, but so warm and so very Sarah. Hoggle had enjoyed a similar kiss, right before he was banished to the Bog of Eternal Stench. He'd rather be stabbed in the throat than treated like that scab, so before she could escape, he gave her a kiss of her own. It landed innocently on the corner of her mouth, but he lingered, letting his nose brush hers as he drew back.

And _that_, ladies, is how it's done.

"No thanks, Jareth," she said, but her rejection was breathless and very needy. He laughed, letting her go because neither of them were quite ready. If they were to 'do the deed', it would lead to nothing but a cigarette, not that either of them smoked.

"Whenever you're ready, Precious. Whenever you're ready." He pinched the skin just beneath her hairline, before moving his hands to her other foot. Smiling widely, Sarah shook her head, sending her short hair bouncing around her pink cheeks. Jareth hadn't noticed she was blushing. He counted it as a victory.

"I don't think so," she quipped, her brows rising towards her hairline, daring him to challenge her. They were thinner now – her brows – but still thicker than what was fashionable. Then again, Sarah wasn't a slave to fashion.

Unlike Jareth.

* * *

Oh man, maybe she should've taken the oubliette. She was fine, when he was really flirty and sexy. No joke. She was fine, a-okay even. But when he got all sweet and subtle, his hot bedroom stare cooling into something simmering and warm, her heart started to hammer in her ears.

It had been so long since she'd had a bad boy or a good man look at her like that. Well, at least one who knew her like Jareth did. The night this crazy adventure started, the date she went on was really good. Aidan Dawson was older than she usually dated, by at least ten years, but he had a job as opposed to an arrest record. He took her to a movie and then to the chip shop, never once touching her inappropriately. She'd even booked him for a second date.

He didn't know her though. Aidan didn't know about her propensity to act sullen when things didn't go her way. Nor had he seen just how busted up she looked when she felt like crying. Jareth had, however, and he was still looking at her like that. If he kept it up, she'd have to marry him.

Now there was a pipe dream. Jareth was effectively ruining her for other men just by acting nice.

"Good evenin', ladies and gentlemen," a voice crackled out of the intercom, after a small bell rung. "The tracks have been cleared, and we will be movin' again soon. However, the storm be still very heavy, so we will be traveling at a speed of ten kilometers an hour. Please forgive us for the inconvenience."

Ten kilometers? _Twenty miles_?

"We won't be there until after midnight," Sarah moaned as she fell back against the mattress. Jareth laughed, moving to lay beside her. She noticed absently that his movements were stiff and slow, and that he winced anytime he jostled his shoulders. Even as he relaxed inches from her, his expression was tight and pained. "Are you alright?"

Propping herself on her elbow, Sarah turned onto her side, leaning over him. Jareth's face was paler than usual, pasty as opposed to luminescent. "I'm just feeling a little wan, my darling. Still, if you could turn off the light, I would be extremely grateful."

"Oh my gosh!" she gasped as she bounced off the bed. "I forgot the whole iron and electricity thing. I'm so sorry." In a flash, she'd turned off the light, the room lightening only slightly when she opened the blinds. Jareth laughed as she ripped the batteries out of her personal cassette player, but it was a harsh, rattling sound. She should've known better. Iron was supposed to be bad for people like Jareth, and here they were, surrounded on all sounds by the dangerous metal.

"You should've told me you weren't feeling well," she scolded as she got back on the bed, moving carefully and precisely as she stretched out beside Jareth. He scooted closer to the wall, giving her the majority of the mattress.

"I'm fine," he said after a long, pregnant silence, his tone gruff and no-nonsense. Weakness was something Jareth hated, right up there with vinyl and Irish bartenders. "Think nothing of it, pet of mine."

Pet of mine? That was a new one, and it had Sarah giggling, albeit worriedly. Though he was her boss and the Goblin King, she still worried about him. Why was anyone's guess. He wasn't paying her actual money, and it was only a vacation home he was shopping for. Jareth wasn't going to stay.

After a moment of silence, Sarah hesitantly asked, "Why iron? I've heard about it before, but never why."

A quick flash of lightning gave her a brief view of the Goblin King as he turned onto his back. It cast his nose in sharp relief. She liked the arch. It was certainly better than her ski slope.

"There are many answers to that question, Precious. Most of them deal with magic and tradition, but the one that will appeal to your modern sensibilities concerns biology. It is not iron that flows through fairy blood, but silver. It's why silver is our ally. Though there are other reasons."

Sarah's brows furrowed as she fought to keep from snuggling against him. She wondered if this was part of the Dreaming, this easy camaraderie that seemed to be forming between them. Unless she was mistaken, kings were not in the habit of befriending stubby nosed girls from New York. On the other hand, stubby nosed girls from New York weren't in the habit of defeating kings in their own castles.

"It was fairies who taught the early Celts the art of smithcraft. We showed them how to work gold and silver in forges. The forge is our gift to humanity, you see," he continued, his tone almost sad. "Then they started mining iron. By that point, fairies were already allergic to the metal. But it became deadly once humans started relying on it for technology, weapons. We were no longer needed, nor believed in."

Jareth stopped speaking, and for a minute there, she thought he'd fallen asleep. Maybe he had, because his voice was quiet. And then, "Cold iron is the most lethal. It is worked on an anvil without being heated in a forge. It burns clear through my skin, like fire through cotton."

Beneath them, the train rumbled to life, rocking back and forth, a boat on an ocean of rainwater. People shouted in happiness and sighed in relief as the locomotive started moving. It inched along at a snail's pace, but at least they were finally going.

"Sleep now," Jareth murmured as he pulled the blanket up around their legs. "Tomorrow is going to come early. The first house on my list seems promising, don't you think?"

* * *

"That was a complete waste of time!" Sarah shouted at Jareth as she stomped away from him. The first house on his list wasn't as promising as he'd hoped it would be. It was more stacked firewood than an actual house. Like the train tracks, it was completely flooded with mud.

And fish guts, having belonged to a fisherman. Sarah was unquestionably angry when Jareth puttered around with the realtor. The moment he saw the muck and mire, he'd transformed his Oxfords into a pair of Wellingtons. He hadn't done the same for Sarah. Her bare legs were brown and dirty from toe to thigh, the hem of her knee-length dress eight inches deep in mud. She'd abandoned her pumps somewhere along the way.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," he called after her, thankful that her back was turned to his amusement. The taxi they'd taken refused her entry, driving away before she could enter. They were forced to walk back to the village. "We never would've known if we hadn't seen it for ourselves."

"Never speak to me again!"

Stifling his laughter behind his hand, Jareth shook his head, walking several feet behind the enraged twenty-one year old. Her back was rigid with rage, every muscle taut and rippling beneath her grimy skin. She'd been so proud of her attire that morning, so much that she'd even modeled the outfit for him. The belted, sleeveless sheath gown was a relic from the fifties, but the floral patterned fabric had yet to fade. The purple lilies were still vibrant, although the surround white cotton was now green and brown.

Her hair was untouched, the finger curls still gleaming and elegant, and except for a streak of mud above her left brow, her face was similarly untouched. Not even her red lipstick was feathered.

"Then I won't say anything." _Though I will enjoy the view_, he added silently. When angry, her gait was stiff, doing all sorts of wonderful things to her hips and derriere, which in turn did wonderful things to his insides. What an exquisite and coltish thing she was, even walking away. Sarah was a bit tall for his tastes – he liked towering over his conquests – but her curves were luscious, and those legs could probably wrap completely around his waist.

They walked in silence, trudging over a sludge slicked field. Sarah pushed her way through a flock of sheep, who wisely avoided her, save for one. The lamb was tiny, but unlike its fleecy friends, it was completely black. It bleated noisily, following her like a lovesick puppy. Initially he thought she didn't notice the baby, but the louder its cries grew, the slower her steps became. Eventually she was just mincing along, her eyes fixed on the lamb's gaze. It had one brown eye… and one blue.

"It's most likely deaf on the blue side," he said when she came to a stop. Dismay flashed over her features as she realized the implications. Black sheep had coarse fur, and deaf sheep couldn't be herded easily. This lamb was slated for a slaughterhouse.

Its crying grew less frantic as she slowly descended to her knees. Now the mud didn't seem to bother her at all as she sunk into it. The baby was her sole concern, gumming her fingertips as they ghosted over its mouth.

Lamb made for a fine dinner, but seeing Sarah stroke its black curls and large ears made him want to swear off all meat. She cradled the baby's head in her hands, rubbing her nose against his, as caring and loving as its strangely absent mother. Jareth's stomach turned. More than likely, the sheep had probably died in childbirth, or had been carried off by a wolf.

Jareth carefully sat beside her, running his hands over the lamb's back. It was warmed by the sun and buzzed with the power of its own mewling. Now he knew it was a girl, very young and terribly frightened. But she loved Sarah. Jareth could understand. Many a being had fallen in love with Sarah with a single glance. It was easy.

"Come Sarah," he intoned, gently laying a hand on her shoulder. "Lingering will only make your heart grow heavy."

He helped her to her feet, leading her through the pasture and away from the flock. He kept his face carefully blank, hiding his thoughts from her. Sarah, apparently, liked livestock. Adding a farm would be easy enough, and it would give them something to do on the weekend. The black lamb was a sweetheart anyways, and it would make Sarah happy.

He wanted to keep it a surprise, but he was itching to let her in on his plans. It was better to wait though, even though patience wasn't his forte.

* * *

The bed and breakfast they were staying in wasn't much better than the houses they were looking at. It wasn't even a bed and breakfast, just a spare room in an old farmhouse. A room right over the kitchen, so they were subjected to the sounds and smells of cooking at all times. Some god was smiling on them, as the owner of the house was a French trained chef, who was nice enough to invite them to dinner that night.

There wasn't anything separating the sink and bathtub from the bedroom, not even a curtain. Sarah was forced to wash up in her underwear, perched on the edge of the claw foot tub as she scrubbed her legs. Jareth didn't have to use the shower. Oh no, he just imagined himself in a new outfit, and poof! One appeared on his perfectly groomed body. The black angora sweater and dark jeans were perfectly cut and tailored to his lean form, probably costing more than her first car.

Ugh, jerk!

"You really needn't wear clothes on my behalf, Sarah dear," he playfully scolded her. That was the first time he'd ever managed both. "You are the only one uncomfortable with nudity."

"I am not uncomfortable with nudity!" she grumbled as she rinsed herself with a bucket. "I just don't think my _boss_ needs to see me naked. It's a little too much like the beginning of a cheap porno."

"Precious, if you ever had to sell your body, you would be incredibly expensive. Possibly ten-thousand dollars a night. I assure you, I would be more than willing to pay."

Ooh, what a cheeky bastard. And yet, for some reason, it was incredibly flattering.

"Although, if you were even in such a position, I'd have to put a stop to it immediately. Now hurry up and get dressed. I can smell Cornish game hens and polenta."

That wasn't even half the menu. As they rounded the corner into the dining room, they could see some sort of salad, farmer's bread, stew, a plate of cheese and brightly colored vegetables. Suddenly she was famished, having eaten nothing but fried food and cereal for the past couple of days. Her eyes were wide as dinner plates, and her rumbling stomach suddenly punctuated the silence.

"Oh dear, I'll be right out!" a male voice called to them with a surprisingly clean American accent. "I just need a minute to finish frosting this chocolate cake."

Chocolate cake?

_Score!_

"Should we sit down?" she asked, inching slowly towards the cheese plate. She could see brie, havarti and buffalo mozzarella. It was even more appealing than a good roll in the hay. The fastest way to her heart was through her stomach.

"Go ahead, I'll be right out."

Jareth and Sarah had yet to meet the owner of the house. Jareth had wanted to stay at a different inn, but its rooms only had single twin-sized beds. As bad as sleeping with Jareth in a queen-sized bed was, being crammed into a twin-sized bed with him would be even worse. The room they were renting at least had a full-sized mattress.

Sarah sat down, laying her napkin over her lap. She suddenly felt underdressed, her green cable knit sweater just a little too informal compared to the grandeur of the porcelain and crystal dishes. But she needn't have worried about that..

"If I had known you'd be so pretty, I'd have worn a tie or something."

Okay, so the owner of the house was _gorgeous_ and straight, if his wandering eyes were anything to go by. He was tall and broad with legs like tree trunks. His dimples were inch deep, softening his square face while complimenting his even white smile.

And he was carrying a platter of divine smelling Cornish game hens bathed in rosemary and lemon on a cushion of fragrant rice. He cooked and was sexy. Where was his wife?

Well, it didn't matter, because just as his gaze migrated south to her breasts…

His kitchen caught fire.

* * *

"You are an unbelievable pig, you know that?"

"More than you could ever know."

The moment he saw the American, Jareth knew their stay at that house was over. The quickest way out of a bill was a sudden, unexpected emergency, such as a grease fire or a broken faucet. Or both.

So they had to stay in a small room and eat yet more fish and chips. Big deal. It beat dining with a man determined to sleep with Sarah.

Ireland certainly had a surplus of ruggedly handsome idiots. No matter where they went, Sarah attracted attention. And why not? She was young and healthy. Still, it was annoying, and on top of that, Sarah seemed ready to welcome that male's advances. He hoped that she was desperate, and not genuinely interested in men like that.

Sarah was sitting cross-legged on the ground, surrounded by brochures and newspaper advertisements. She had a notebook propped in her lap, its pages nearly black underneath her writing. Every now and then she'd show him a picture of a house, and mark it as a yes or a no depending on his answer.

"I wasn't going to sleep with him," she said as she crossed off a small, two-bedroom townhouse in Belfast. "It's not like I would've gotten any privacy."

A stab of jealousy shot through his heart. She didn't say that she didn't _want_ to sleep with him, just that she couldn't. "If you are seeking that kind of attention, I would hope you wouldn't rely on men like that."

"Jareth, that man was gold compared to the other men I've dated." He rolled his eyes on that, turning on his side to face her. The twin sized bed was miniscule, but they'd have to sleep on top of one another. He hoped it was worth it.

"More like fool's gold. If he's such a talented chef, why is he renting a room in the middle of nowhere?"

Cocking her head to the side, Sarah frowned thoughtfully. "I hadn't thought about that."

Satisfied with her response, he rolled to his back and closed his eyes. His settled stomach and lack of pain was a fair indication that the plumbing was made of copper and not iron. He felt fine, if a bit tired.

"Either way, we only have one more house here before we move on, the one overlooking the ocean. It has a small pasture and vegetable garden."

"What about a barn?" he asked. "I would like to bring my horse here during the spring."

Sarah's response was eager and surprised. "You have a horse? Why haven't you said anything?" Jareth smiled.

"I own several horses, but I want to bring my favorite riding horse, Pyry, here. He's a Finnhorse, so he'll do well with the colder weather." Well, he wasn't Jareth's _favorite_ horse, per se, but the black stallion was mild tempered. He also had his heart set on Ladislava, the Czech warm blood he planned on gifting Sarah. Horses did better with company, and they would make good stall mates. Except during the spring. Jareth wasn't in the breeding business.

"You really should come to bed," he said as her eyes stayed closed just a little too long. She'd been blinking rapidly, fighting off fatigue most likely. But she only gave him the evil eye.

"I am sleeping on the floor," she said with a note of finality.

"Absolutely not," he replied with a slightly more determined note of finality. "I am in no mood to argue. Come to bed now, or I will strip you and drag you in myself."

Sarah made several noises of protests, in disbelief and more than a little shock. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, bringing to mind dying fish. He could almost imagine bubbles floating into the air.

She must've come to some extraordinary decision, because before he could make one more cheeky comment… she was disrobing.


	3. Chapter 3

So he was going to strip her and drag her in himself, huh? Oh hell no! If Jareth wanted a hellcat, he got one. Some sick little part of her depraved mind was glad she was wearing one of her flashier lingerie sets. It was the same part of her that was hooting and hollering in celebration. There was a good chance that she was getting laid tonight, and she'd actually be awake for it. More than that, it would probably be the most toe curling and fulfilling rodgering she'd ever received. Jareth _was_ a very thorough man.

A very thorough man with an adorable look of disbelief on his face. He was all eyes as she shimmied out of her clothes, until she was shivering in her skivvies. Then his expression turned hungry, famished even. And for good reason. She looked damned fine, thank you very much.

Sarah always preferred flirty to sexy, and her undergarments reflected that. Her panties were boyishly cut, but sat low on her hips, the leopard print fabric trimmed in pink lace. The bra that came with the set was made of the same pink lace, and it wasn't lined. He could see everything, not that it mattered. His expression alone had the tips of her breasts hard in anticipation. Were his teeth as sharp as they looked, and did he know how to use them…?

Well, it just didn't matter, because _she_ was the boss. At least for now. A victorious smirk nearly split her face in two, and as she pulled the covers back, she pretended not to notice that he was pretty damn excited. He practically leapt out of his skin when she slid into bed next to him, pressing herself long and lean against his side. The light was still on, and the bed was tiny, but he deserved whatever she dished out.

"Is this better, your majesty?" she retorted sarcastically, the pitch of her voice raised a few octaves. Wiggling strategically onto her side, facing away from him, she tucked his hip into the small of her back. Thank God for triple bladed razors and hot wax, because she was smooth and soft from head to toe.

Ah, victory was sweet. Nothing was going to rain on her parade.

"So, Sarah, when did you get a tattoo?"

Except for that.

_Uh oh._

She really should've thought the whole getting naked thing through. But her brain was a traitorous bitch, convincing her that stripping down was the best way to keep Jareth off her case, when in reality, it was the worst thing she could've done.

"Roll over," he commanded, and before she could say 'fuck you', he'd quickly turned her onto her stomach. One hand gently pressed her cheek into the pillow while the other tugged the quilt down to her hips. With the blanket tackled, she felt very warm fingertips pluck at the waistband of her teeny undies.

'_We're getting laid! We're getting laid!'_ her mind chanted in a sing song voice, jumping up and down as Jareth straddled her thighs. Laid? More like getting raped. He kept most of his weight off of her, but she could feel some very obvious poking going on. If he just nudged her panties out of the way, there'd be nothing stopping him from having his evil way with her.

And yet her body completely ignored her fears, going slick in all the right places. Jareth just carefully tugged down the top of her leopard printed panties, until the top half of her left butt cheek was completely exposed.

Uh oh indeed.

* * *

"I must admit, Sarah," he joked as his fingers traced the contours of her elegant tattoo. It gave him an excuse to touch her bare skin. "I find this side of you most surprising." And arousing all hell.

Sarah, despite being an adult, was still such an innocent. She gave into her emotions, but was then bashful for doing so. In his Labyrinth, she was completely oblivious to the sexual tension in the tunnels. She felt love for farm animals, and could even forgive that little scab Hedgehog for betraying her.

However, she was apparently a wild thing in disguise. That she would mar her perfect body for decoration's sake was proof of that. She had paid someone to permanently stain her skin at the end of a needle. He knew that she was no fan of pain, but she had willingly endured it, for hours during the tattooing process, and then weeks of healing, at least. Of course, no one would see it but her, as it was on flesh reserved for herself. Or for lovers – for him.

"What does it mean?" he asked as he pressed on the colorful lines. In the grand tradition of Sarah's love of fantasy, it was a Celtic design. A doe, flattened and cast in profile, had two snarling, elongated canines wrapped around her ankles in the beginnings of a Gordian knot. The deer was inked in the same shade of green as the darkest part of her eyes, while the wolves were outlined in black and then shadowed gray. It was small, barely bigger than a silver dollar, but so very Sarah.

"It's um… it's for the story of Finn and Sabd."

Hmm, so she went for an Irish myth. And here he'd been hoping she'd choose his name. Ah well, there was still time.

"I see Sadb," he said, stroking the deer as he settled himself firmly on her thighs. Then his fingers moved over the wolfhounds. "As well as Bran and Sceolan."

Releasing the elastic waist of her underwear, he smoothed the stretchy fabric until it was as it should be. He'd never cared for animal prints, but on Sarah, it was utterly apposite. The column of her back was pale, smooth, and liberally covered in goose bumps. Her shoulders were shaking slightly, and now her breath was shallow, uneven. Her skin was very warm though, and he could smell the faint musk of her arousal. So his sweet little Sarah knew what she wanted, but was unwilling to go after it? That just wouldn't do.

"But where," Jareth murmured as he leaned forward, until her shoulder blades were flush against his chest, his elbows on either side of her waist. "Is Finn?"

She was supposed to turn away. To tell him to shove off and sleep in the bowels of hell. She wasn't supposed to look over her shoulder with flushed cheeks and lust darkened eyes. And she _certainly_ wasn't supposed to say…

"I haven't found him yet."

Jareth snarled, his hand gripping her chin tightly. "Look no further," he ground out before catching her lips in a bruising kiss. She gasped at the sudden contact, opening her mouth to exploration. His free hand shot underneath her, molding around her breast insistently. He'd been longing to do so ever since seeing her in her scandalous undergarments.

Either she flipped over, or he did it for her, because suddenly she was on her back, her legs spread in a very friendly way. Jareth's mouth found hers as he offered his thanks by pressing his arousal against her clothed center. It wasn't the gentlemanly thing to do, but gentlemen led such boring lives.

They rocked against one another, gasping and moaning as the friction and heat built between them. Oh gods, _yes_, he had her. He had her wet and willing beneath him. Sarah was sure of herself, her hands fisted firmly in his hair. Her surprisingly strong thighs were clenched tightly around his hips, keeping him in place, not that he wanted to move.

Not that he would ever want to move.

By the _gods_, her tongue was talented.

* * *

_We're getting laid, then we're getting married! Children can't be too far behind. We'll have four boys, and three girls, and maybe two wolfhounds. Here comes the bride, all dressed in white!_

Hot damn, Jareth was a hard man. No a good man. No, good _and_ hard, in all the right places. Namely between her legs.

One long fingered hand wiggled its way between her panties and rear end, lifting her hips clear off the bed. This gave him greater leverage to thrust against her, which was just fine, because it felt really, _really_ good. His hand started to knead the side of her ass where her tattoo was, warming her skin almost uncomfortably. She didn't care, because if she sucked on his tongue, _just_ right –

"Hello! Housekeeping! I've got your fish suppers!"

Somebody would knock on the door.

Cold water flooded her veins, dampening her lust until it was nothing but ashes. Sarah gasped, wrenching her mouth away from Jareth's. This was her boss. No, scratch that, this was JARETH. The man who wasn't really a man, who thought it was okay to send the Cleaners after her, just because she was a smart ass. Who threatened her with an oubliette so he could go house hunting.

"Get off of me," she pleaded quietly. He stared down at her, hurt, confused and breathless as she pushed ineffectively at his chest. Although he was her boss and her tormentor, he had every right to be offended. She'd led him on, because she was desperate…

And very much in love.

Oh God.

"Please, Jareth," she whispered as the maid's knocking grew more insistent. He glowered at her, rolling away with an angry growl. While he was busy stomping towards the door, Sarah skittered away to the bathroom. With the door locked behind her, she broke down fully, leaning against the battered wooden panel as she sobbed into her hands. Jareth all but shouted at the maid, and sent her away crying. When he spoke to her, however, he was decidedly gentler.

"Sarah, please, open the door," he urged as he jiggle the doorknob. "This isn't something we can't talk about, together, as rational adults."

'_Yes it is,'_ she thought to herself, but as she wiped her tears, she only cried, "I think I need to get my own room."

"There's no need for that," he said gently, somewhat desperately. "I will sleep on the floor, and in the morning we will talk."

What was there to talk about? She loved him, and he loved to antagonize her.

"I… I think I need to go back to Dublin." _And then back to New York, before you can stop me_.

"That is out of the question. Now come out. I have your bathrobe."

He did have her bathrobe, and he did sleep on the floor, but the next morning, they didn't speak as rational adults.

They didn't speak at all.

* * *

Every woman owns a suit of armor. It's called a turtleneck. Fortunately, it was cold, so Sarah had an excuse to wear it. Unfortunately, it was knitted by her blind aunt, who used neon pink yarn when she meant to use gray. It was angora though, so at least she wasn't itchy.

The silence made for a very awkward taxi ride. Jareth stared out his window, and Sarah stared out hers. And the driver was completely oblivious to the tension between the not so starry eyed lovers.

"Wha' ter?" the ancient cabbie said from behind a rather epic beard. "Oi 'ill take ye anywhere ye want ter go." He flashed Sarah a smile over his shoulder, eying her longs legs though they were wrapped in heavy denim. Sarah glowered at him from behind her large sunglasses, though she didn't need to. Jareth's unhappy expression could cover the world in darkness, twice over.

"There's a house for sale by the old church just off of Fianna Bothar," Sarah drawled tiredly, pulling the advertisement from her purse. It didn't say much, just that there was a house for sale.

"Bothar is jist de ward for road, sweetheart," he chuckled good-naturedly. To Sarah, it sounded like pure derision. "An' it isn't by de church. 'Tis de church, well, de rectory an' stables, actually. They're buildin' a new church closer ter town, so they're tearin' down dis wan, for de stained glass an' timber."

"Yes, well, take us there promptly," Jareth snapped, adjusting his leather gloves. "We haven't got all day, and from the looks of it, neither do you."

The cabbie just laughed. "'Owl ye 'orses, sir. De gaff 'ill still be dare in cock an' 'en minutes. Oi tink 'tis pure nice dat ye buyin' ye bottle av water a gaff."

Neither Jareth nor Sarah knew what he said right off the bat. They just stared at the back of his head, pondering his odd dialect.

Gaff she knew. Gaff meant house. Cock an' 'en… that probably just meant ten. But bottle of water?

Bottle of water… bottle of water…

_Oh_.

Daughter.

Jareth must've realized this at the same time, because his eyes sharpened into daggers. But before he could send the driver into an oubliette, Sarah laid a hand on his arm, drawing his attention to her.

"I am _not_ walking."

He relented, but he decidedly unhappy. She was too, but at least the driver finally woke up and was silent for the rest of the ride. Sarah would occasionally sneak a glance at her boss, but he resolutely ignored her.

Man, this sucked. Hard. But she didn't want to apologize. She wasn't even sure if she needed to. Last night… last night was definitely a mistake. On so many varied and fucked up levels. Most of it, yes, was her fault. She took her clothes off. She got into bed with him. She taunted him. He just took the bait. Based on her previous experiences with men, he was reacting as any guy would. The guys she'd dated/bonked/rejected weren't very discriminate. All women were beautiful and warm in the dark. And from what she understood, fairies were ridiculously oversexed… although Jareth would still probably be oversexed if he was a regular human. What with his good looks. And nice thighs.

'_I'm so screwed,'_ she thought to herself, closing her eyes against the sudden stab of longing in her heart. Screwed, and in love. With Jareth. The Goblin King.

"We're 'ere," the cabbie said gruffly, coming to an abrupt stop alongside several trailers, dump trucks and bulldozers. Tan faced construction workers in plastic helmets darted about, carrying two by fours and hammers. They were only slightly more organized than Jareth's goblins, but not nearly as amusing.

"By the stars! Construction work?" Jareth barked, surveying the scene with his usual majestic sneer. "And when shall they be concluded?"

"It ain't me problem," their driver groused. "Ye can git oyt nigh."

Remembering her manners, Sarah politely offered her thanks and paid what was owed, dragging Jareth out by his elbow. "I will not spend another minute in that car," she hissed as she led him into a makeshift gravel parking lot. Several people were dumbstruck by the violent shade of her sweater. Or maybe by the two neat mounds it molded her breasts into.

"I already called the realtor. He's promised to give us a private tour of the house." She didn't bother waiting for him. If he wanted to follow her, he would, because he was just that stubborn.

* * *

And follow he did, lest those vultures follow her, mouths open and hands groping. What a roguish bunch of monkeys. Unwashed, unread… _Irish_.

He might as well have parted the Red Sea; the path he cleared was so wide. Sarah's hips tended to sway as she walked, very nicely. Neither too much nor too little. And every man on the premises knew it.

Trudging up behind her, Jareth carefully avoided random piles of bricks and paving stones. As much as he liked his boots, Ferragamo made a very comfortable pair of loafers, and scuffs were so very proletariat.

There's nothing quite so depressing as seeing a church being torn down. The steeple and roof were already gone, and now the construction company was handling gorgeous portraits rendered in stained glass. How such a small parsonage could afford such grand works of art spoke to the wealth of the Catholic church. Paintings and music had their place in faith rituals, but now they were being carted in the way in the back of a pickup.

His temper hanging by a thread, Jareth pursued Sarah fully. How dare she try to flee! And twice in less than a day! No one, neither man nor beast, ever escaped him. Except for Sarah, now that he thought about it…

However, he needn't have worried about her getting away, for when he finally caught up to her, she was just standing there. Initially he thought she was stuck, because she wouldn't move. But then he came to her side, and saw that she was _smiling_.

"I didn't know the house had a garden," she breathed in wonder. Cocking a brow, Jareth turned his eyes in the direction of her gaze, and saw exactly what made her so happy.

Behind the proverbial white picket fence, was a proper country garden overrun with colorful wildflowers and fragrant herbs. Rosemary, lemon balm, a trellis covered in climbing jasmine, mums and even rosebushes. Daisies were growing in the cracks of the walkway leading to the front door, where a calico kitten was licking her paws.

Most of these plants didn't even grow in Ireland. The soil was acidic for the most part; it's why only potatoes could take root.

Hoggle wasn't the only avid gardener in the Labyrinth.

"I've missed actual gardens," Sarah sighed forlornly as she swung open the gate. "I keep a few potted plants in my apartment, but it isn't the same."

"And here I thought the Labyrinth would've turned you off to the idea forever," he remarked in wonder as he followed her. The garden was absolutely lovely. There was even a small café table set for tea.

She either didn't hear him, or was ignoring him, as she had found another topic. "This is a great house, Jareth."

His heart nearly stopped beating, she surprised him so. She liked the house? She didn't find fault with the windows or the roof or the Juliet balcony?

"I love the diamond lead pattern on the casement windows, and slate roofs are so beautiful. There's even a Juliet balcony on the second floor, do you see it? It's made out of copper, you can tell by how green it is." She paused to sigh. "I always wanted one as a kid, even before I read Romeo and Juliet."

Now would've been a perfect time to go to a casino or buy a lottery ticket, because he'd just hit the jackpot. Sarah Williams had just succumbed to love at first sight with a little stone cottage.

And dear Lord, how he hated it. It was dull and ordinary, despite being well kept and traditional. And so… so… _small_. It reminded him of his first tree house, or the little stage where his sisters would hold puppet shows. At best, it could've been the home of a mediocre merchant, or perhaps a Goblin lieutenant. Not a Goblin King.

"Hey kit-cat," Sarah cooed unexpectedly, crouching beside the bathing kitty to tickle her chin. "How many bedrooms does this house have?"

Not nearly enough, he wanted to say, but it wouldn't have mattered. Nothing he could have said would've offended or delighted her in the slightest. As, much to his displeasure, a new character entered his story, one he should've prepared for.

Namely, the rival.

"Sarah? Is that you?"

A sudden dose of fear dropped down his spine, though the male voice coming from behind him was mild and pleasant of tone. He was afraid, because when Sarah looked up, her eyes were wide and almost hopeful.

"Aidan?"

Aidan?

Who the _fuck_ was Aidan?

Snapping his head in the direction of the unknown male's voice, Jareth was shocked to see that Aidan was a small man, no taller than Sarah, with short, no-nonsense black hair and straight brows. He had a very boyish face that clashed with his business suit and Windsor knotted tie. His eyes were grey (ordinary), his build was average (ordinary), and his nose had a slight bump in the middle (again, ordinary). Nevertheless, he smiled at Sarah like he had the right to, looking bookish and timid and flustered.

"When I hadn't heard from you," Aidan breathed in wonder, "I thought I'd never see you again."

_Take one step towards her and you'll never see __**anything**__ again._ Though his thoughts were hot, his face was cool as he considered the interloper. There was no need to show how uncomfortable he was. None whatsoever.

"The last month has been crazy," his (yes, _his_) Sarah said shyly as she stood back up. Her hands smoothed over her tummy, pulling on her hideous sweater, which only drew further attention to her breasts.

That did it.

"Unless you are the realtor," he began curtly, "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse us."

This _Aidan_ was quick to reply. "Oh, I am the realtor. The Catholic Church sold the property to my real estate firm after they decided to move."

So they'd be stuck with this little worm for the entire afternoon? No, no way. Definitely not. Maybe the cab was still –

"Hey, that's great!" Sarah chimed in. "Maybe you'd want to show us around?"

_Damn!_

"Sure! I haven't got another showing until tomorrow afternoon."

The situation then went from annoying to unbearable. Neither Aidan nor Sarah spoke to him as they wandered through the small house, and somehow, it took three hours to tour a twelve-hundred square foot parsonage. His mother's hope chest was larger. It was a repeating cycle of shyly exchanged glances and gushing compliments on the part of Aidan. Though the little twerp wasn't brave enough to slip in a little sexual innuendo while surveying the bedroom. Human courtship was so predictable. If he liked Sarah, he should've just said something.

Upsetting as the situation was, and it was fucking irritating, it gave him a chance to observe Sarah. If he complimented her, she'd tuck her hair behind her ears, repetitively. Laying a hand on her elbow to lead her around made her walk faster, almost as if she wanted to flee. When he asked after her family, she gave monosyllabic answers. Aidan would push, she would pull away. From what he could deduce, though this Aidan knew Sarah, something about him was off putting. Possibly his boring appearance.

Why didn't she come to him for help if she was uncomfortable? For that matter, why didn't she just say no? Politeness be damned. He would've cut the whelp's hand off the moment he got too touchy.

"So, what do you guys think?" Aidan the Forgettable asked in a blasé tone as the tour came to an end. He rocked back and forth on his heels like a nervous child standing before a stern schoolmaster. Ugh, _pathetic_.

"I have no interest in this house whatsoever," Jareth said firmly. "Forgive us for having wasted your time."

Maybe pulling Sarah by her elbow was rude and presumptive, but if he had to endure one more moment of Aidan's bumbling, somebody was going to die. A very slow, painful and ridiculously bloody death by the claws of an owl. Although Sarah once said that barn owls were simply adorable.

"Did you really have to throw yourself at him?" he growled as he dragged her through the door. "I hated this house. We could've moved on if you would've given me the chance to speak."

He could feel his rage boiling to the surface, but Sarah was oddly silent, keeping perfect pace with him as he marched back down to the road. She didn't even protest when his hand tightened around her arm. Granted, his hold wasn't too painful. Not even anger could persuade him to harm her.

The car wasn't there, but it mattered not. Jareth marched them right passed the construction crew, across the road, and into the forest. The same instinct that guided him while hunting prey as an owl, guided him now as he wove through rows of trees with Sarah at his side. Sessile oaks, Mountain Ash, Hawthorns. As beautiful as they were, they were far too ugly for his tastes. Why settle for anything less than the Silverwoods? A young sapling could yield enough jewels to stud several tiaras.

But a rare, single Strawberry Tree would suffice. The tree was fairly damp from the frog, but he felt no compunction about swinging Sarah around and pressing her into the trunk. She gasped as she was slammed against the unyielding trunk, the rough bark digging into her delicate flesh. Though she winced, he felt no remorse. In his bent mind, she deserved exactly what he had planned.

Actually, what he had half-planned. Seeing her like this, with her face flushed and breasts heaving, the sun shining over that awful sweater in buttery ribbons… it brought out the villain in him. And the villain in him only understood one word when it came to relationships.

_Mine_.

Giving her no time to protest, he swooped in for the kill, crashing his lips against hers as he filled his hands with the firm flesh of her behind. His tongue swept into her open mouth, twisting, sucking, tangling with hers. Nothing existed but Sarah. The fragrance of her perfume rose from her neck, and he delighted in the fragrance of spring and youth.

And _peaches_.

Now. He would have her now. And when he was through, when she was warm and shaking with pleasure, Sarah would be his.

* * *

Sarah tried following his mouth, but he moved too quick, too sloppily. Jareth didn't bother with teasing or tempting her with small, closed kisses, instead immediately opening his mouth over hers. She was keenly aware of him, his face, his shoulders, the tight press of his hips against hers. The subtle scent of his skin wasn't so subtle anymore. He smelled so good, like leather and spice and warm man.

Sliding her hands around his shoulders, she hissed as her palms ran over his stretched, sleek muscles. She could taste him now, the spicy but sweet flavor on her tongue a dangerous promise. This was no kiss. It was just an appetizer. Foreplay even.

Foreplay she was pretty good with. She deftly proved that, catching his tongue between her lips and humming her pleasure. One hand left his shoulder and trailed down his back, skimming over his backside. Good Lord, he was absolutely _poured_ into his jeans. Why was everything about him hard as a rock? Better yet, why couldn't _all_ men have rock-hard bodies?

She was mortified by the little mewls of encouragement she was making, but they only made him more voracious. He wrapped his hands around her elbows, hauling her against him as he harshly bit her lower lip. It hurt like hell, but she only responded more, rubbing amorously against him where they both needed it. The length of his arousal pressed into her belly as he leaned into her, until the hardness of his chest flattened the softness of hers. Moving her fingertips to the skin just behind his ears, Sarah somehow deepened the kiss

There was a quick, tearing noise, and Sarah thought Jareth had ripped her sweater. Awful as it was, it was still a gift. But when something shaped very much like a button pinged against her stomach, it became apparent that her sweater was just fine. Jareth's shirt, on the other hand, was now parted to reveal a very trim chest and nicely ridged abs. And a bellybutton she wanted to use for a teacup.

Jareth pulled back, gasping for breath like he'd just run a marathon. His chest was heaving as he stared at her for a moment, his blue eye bluer than ever, and his brown eye solidly black. She didn't even want to know what she looked like, but she couldn't have looked too awful, as he hadn't run off screaming yet. If she knew that her hair was knotted with twigs and leaves, _she _would've run off screaming.

To Jareth though, she was positively _luminous_. The leaves in her hair were a lofty crown, and her eyes glittered like roughhewn emeralds. But he was deathly frightened. This was the point where she grew skittish, where her mind grew keen with fear and uncertainty. Where would she run off to, now that there was no bathroom door separating them?

He kissed her again, because the temptation proved too great to ignore. Just a light, fleeting brush of his lips, lest he scare her off. He raised a hand to her chin, brushing his long fingers over her trembling mouth, past her cheek to cup the nape of her neck. The shorter tresses there bit into his palm. Silk be damned. Nothing was softer than her hair.

"Sarah," he sighed. It was the first time where her name was an endearment in itself. That name would always mean love, home and happiness. She must've known that, because her eyes were as wide as the blue moon that rises over Llyn Llydaw. A cool wind drifted over his bare skin, raising chill bumps as it blew. At the ball where they first danced, the sexual tension in the room was something to laugh at, and was anything but private. He might as well have thrown an orgy. When she ran, there was no one to blame but himself.

Now though, with his arousal straining against the unforgiving denim of his slacks, he felt bare and vulnerable. What if it was funny to her now? Would she laugh as he'd laughed at her?

No, no she wouldn't, because with a quavering smile, her hands started to explore his chest and shoulders, brushing away his tattered shirt like it was nothing more than a piece of lint. Beneath the pass of her cool palms, his muscles grew tense. Again, he was reminded that she'd been with other men, but she wasn't with them now. Shivers ran up and down his spine as she pressed her mouth to his throat, running the flat of her tongue against his pulse point. She nipped her way down his neck and across his collarbones, eventually catching his nipple between her teeth. He felt his control shatter to slivers when she flicked her tongue over the tightly beaded tip.

Without warning, he caught her about her waist, pulling them to the ground. She landed gently on a patch of flowering Irish Moss, which was softer than down with a mere thought. He gave her barely enough time to breathe before he covered her mouth with his. Between kisses he caught the hem of her candy floss sweater, drawing it up and up until she had to raise her arms so he could remove it.

Never in his life had he ever been so jealous of undergarments. But the plain white bra was hiding flesh he desperately wanted to touch, to taste. He could taste the fizzy, champagne sweetness of her mouth though. And, gods, how sweet she was as their lips slid against each other, tongues tangling with intent.

This wasn't right though, he knew as he nuzzled the tops of her breasts. Many times he'd been warned about situations like this, where if he took what he wanted, he'd never win, even if she wanted it too. But how to give it to her without sullying his chances at a real life with her?

He was a generous lover. He needed to show her that. And though it would hurt, what better way than to make her happy, while denying himself?

Hissing as Sarah pulled his mouth to hers, Jareth settled himself between her spread legs. He already ached, not only with love, but with anticipation. He kissed her desperately, hoping it would be enough. Holding her tightly, he started rocking against her, slowly at first, then firmer as she started to moan in pleasure. The clutch of her thighs was proof enough that she was well aware of his intentions. She writhed beneath him, demanding more but accepting what he gave her. He was stronger anyways.

The heat emanating from between her thighs was maddening. Gods, he wanted to be inside of her. His erection started throbbing just at the thought of penetrating her. But he contented himself (sort of) by grinding himself harder, faster against her. Sarah was almost weeping in pleasure now, and he clenched his jaw to keep from begging her to just climax already so he could take a cold bath already.

When she finally did though, he wondered at his haste. She was absolutely _gorgeous_ when she came. Sarah stiffened below him as the friction became too much, tilting her head to the side to moan and whimper. Her back arched so far off the ground, he swore he could hear her spine cracking. And then she collapsed, going limp as she gasped for breath. He was still hard, the length of his arousal aching behind his fly, but at least she was satisfied.

Longing for a cold shower, Jareth laid his head on her breasts, turning his face so his ear was pressed against her pounding heart. He let the frantic rhythm boost his ego. _And I only took her shirt off_, he thought gleefully as he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was surprised to see a very curious pair of grey eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Jareth peered at the dove resting on a branch above his head, staring into its eyes as Sarah's breath steamed along his neck. He needed to focus on something other than the very warm and soft woman squirming deliciously against his very painful hard-on, to borrow a common, if crude, mortal phrase. If he looked at her now, he would ruin his slacks, because the most beautiful and arousing creature in the world was beautifully aroused under him. There was no creature Above or Underground that could hold a candle to Sarah at that moment. She wasn't a great beauty, he had to admit. Her facial features weren't defined enough. They were soft and round, chubby even by fairy standards. Her nose was just a little off. Not ugly, but certainly imperfect. However, with cheeks flushed and eyes darkened with wild desire, she was stunning.

Having large, heaving breasts certainly helped.

The dove cooed once and flew off, fluttering into the branches of the tree above them. It must've been scarred for life at the sight of two topless humans. Or human-_ish _on his part. But he wouldn't apologize. No, not by a long shot. Never would he apologize, for he could feel her slickness starting to seep through his jeans, and by every star above, that was the sexiest thing ever.

Well, he thought it was, because the moment he felt brave enough to look at her was the most foolish in his life. She had been staring at him the entire time, and waiting for her moment. When his eyes met hers, she snarled like a leopard and shoved him off of her by slamming her strong hands into his shoulders. Jareth hit the ground with a solid thump, prompting the thought '_Well, that ends this exercise.'_ Only it didn't. When he rolled over onto his back, Sarah all but pounced on him, straddling his thighs like a seasoned cowgirl. Later he would learn of that double entendre.

He was certain she was about to strike him straight in the jaw. How wrong he was. Looking up at her, there wasn't an angry or wrathful woman sitting atop of his thighs. Instead, there was a siren named Sarah. Short, sweat-curled panels of black hair fell over her eyes, until all he could see were stripes of flushed skin and two very dark, intense eyes, bringing to mind a hungry tigress.

Dear gods, she was going to _rape_ him.

And he was going to let her. Just not any orifice she pleased.

'_No!_,' his traitorous mind urged. '_This is just sex! You want more than sex!_' His erection proved otherwise, so he let her tackle the button on his jeans, which was proving too much for her shaky fingers. It gave him just enough time to think for a second, even though he could barely breathe with her knuckles bumping his tummy over and over.

'_Do not trust the ravenous woman, do not trust the ravenous woman, do not trust – aha!' _His thoughts flew off like a sparrow escaping a hawk. Not content to struggle with the fastening, Sarah chose to caress him directly through his pants, her hand firm and warm as she stroked him insistently. She curved her fingers around his shaft, which was talented, given that he wasn't even sure where his groin was under all that denim. But she sure did.

"We need to work this out of our system, _now_," she demanded with a voice that was far too throaty and husky to belong to dear, sweet Sarah. As sexy as her tone was, the command was heartbreaking. He was something to be worked out… and not worked on?

There was no other choice. He had to end it now. However, he was tired of their endless verbal confrontations. It seemed they always came to blows, never talking quietly as adults did. Or whatever it was that adults did (bogging people was always more effective than talking). Jareth, for once, was tired of the fighting. Angry women could arouse a man faster than outright shagging, but Sarah was apt to be particularly vengeful if he let her have her way. So he did what any sane fairy would do.

He looked up at her apologetically, giving her luscious body one more longing glance, and promptly disappeared.

When he reappeared, he was standing at the edge of the forest, dressed in a new outfit consisting of hiking boots, sturdy jeans and a comfortable windbreaker. Of course he would wait for Sarah to emerge, but he strongly suspected that his trek to the hotel would be a lonely one. And painful, excruciatingly painful. He could feel certain parts of his anatomy starting to turn blue.

The road he was on was hard-packed dirt, with stray rocks that he took to kicking around. Sometimes he aimed at the trees, at a sign post listing several cities in Gaelic (all containing an inappropriate amount of nonsensical consonant combinations), and towards a field packed with yet more sheep. Really, the Irish needed to invest in at least one herd of Angus cattle. They were hearty creatures and tasty when braised. Sheep were good for wool and lanolin, and the process of obtaining lanolin was disgusting.

Above him, the sky was pink and orange as the sun set. So their tryst had lasted longer than he thought? Or had Aidan's blasted tour eaten up precious hours?

Aidan. The mere thought of the black haired Irishman sent fresh waves of anger surging over his flesh like tongues of fire. What did she see in him? He was plain and dull. Why would Sarah want something so meek? Were the other men in her life so inept that she contented herself with field mice? He ought to rip every one of their throats out for reducing her expectations to nothing.

Jareth thought back to the other men she'd mentioned. None of them had names. They were only scumbags. Faceless males she deemed unworthy of her attention. The second one versed her in the ways of lovemaking apparently though, and for that, he deserved to die a slow, painful, feathery death.

As he went to kick another stone at something gratifying, he heard a slight rustling from the tall grasses on the side of the lane, and very loud and obvious cursing, from a voice that was no longer deep from an orgasm. It was screechy and directed at him.

Wincing, he looked over his shoulder, not at all surprised at what he saw. Sarah was stumbling over a ditch, her hideous sweater back on. Only it was covered in mud and prickly with burrs and leaves. Her sex-tousled locks (he had to stop thinking of fucking her) were knotted and curled clear over her ears. And her expression was positively furious. When he came into her vision as she crested the hill, she stopped dead in her tracks, staring at him with venom in her eyes. She spoke, and her words weren't sweet nothing. Hers were fighting words.

"Does the Underground have unions?"

Wait, what? Did the Underground have what?

"I'm sorry," Jareth began carefully. "Could you repeat that?"

Sarah's frowned deepened. "Unions. Underground. Do you have them, your Stupidity?"

Okay, that one hurt. And worse, he still didn't understand. "You'll have to explain the concept to me."

"When workers are dissatisfied with the abuse they endure at the hands of their bosses, they organize unions, and kick some major ass. Given how unhappy Hoggle is, I figured you'd have several unions to juggle."

Jareth shook his head, rocking back and forth on his feet as his crotch started to bruise from unfulfilled desire. For the first time in his life, an erection hadn't led to an orgasm, and the dull pain was agonizing. Maybe he should've worked this out of his system.

"Well, you're about to find your first strike _ever_. Now magic me to the hotel. You get to walk back."

That seemed fair, he realized as he stared in shame at his feet. He owed it to her at least. After all, _she'd only climaxed while he did the right thing and walked away, you traitorous __**bitch**__, how dare you order me around like I'm some love-sick sap pining after some midnight she-wolf!_

_Oh._

_Right._

"Yeah, I can do that," he consented, and with a threadbare thought, she disappeared from view with a faint pop.

Knowing that women loved luxury, even humble women like Sarah, prompted him to send his lady love to the presidential suite of the Druids Glen Hotel in Dublin, Ireland. There was no way in hell he was walking halfway across the country, so he'd take a quiet stroll for about an hour and then 'magic' himself to her side, and do…

Do what? Explain the situation? _Sorry I left you hanging, but I couldn't have sex with you. Ignore the erection._ _It's not mine._

'_I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now!'_

'_Deseo que los goblins vinieran eliminarle ahora!'_

'_Je souhaite que les lutins viennent vous enlever en ce moment!'_

'_Ich wünsche, dass die Kobolde kommen würden, Sie wegzunehmen im Augenblick.'_

"No!"

* * *

The quick trip and loud popping noise had her puking into a vase of flowers as soon as she made it to a hotel room that was clearly someone else's, in a ritzy resort somewhere other than East Bumfuck, Ireland. How could he handle traveling like that? It felt like dying.

It only took a single glance to realize that this was not the little bed and breakfast they'd checked into that morning. First off, it was huge and clean. There was a foyer, a living room, a dining room, and at least three doors. The entire place was done rich shades of cream and beige. Silver glass lamps hosted shades of golden satin, and in front of a roaring fire place were a collection of couches and chairs dripping in royal velvets and Dupioni silks. On a glass coffee table, a chilled bottled of Moët & Chandon champagne was resting in one of those fancy ice buckets, and outside the window, the city was Dublin was quiet and dimmed.

Most boyfriends bought jewelry or pouted until their girlfriends returned. Jareth took her to a fancy hotel. How sweet.

Ignoring the stench of her own intestines emanating from the vase, which was on a buffet table just next to the door, Sarah picked up a rose-scented envelope sitting on the copper counter, tearing into that bitch like it insulted her mother. The note smelled just as nice, and provided the backdrop for Jareth's elegant, rounded handwriting.

_Dearest Sarah,_

_I hope you find your accommodations acceptable. Please accept my humble apologies, but if we 'did the deed' in the middle of the woods, you would only hate me come morning. If you are still aroused and unfulfilled when I arrive later this evening, rest assured, I will lay with you until morning. Only by your desire of course._

_I took the liberty of ordering champagne with strawberries, pizza and frozen raspberry soufflé. I know how much you adore that combination._

_I will join you in an hour or two._

_Yours,  
Jareth_

Sarah felt most of her ire go out the window at his ridiculously grand apology. There must've been no Underground equivalent of the word 'subtlety.' Or, at least, there wasn't one in Jareth's dictionary. Just look at those pants! They were too tight and clearly a testament to his ego, like Christmas presents wrapped in 14-karat gold.

Good God, she'd just thought of Jareth's legs and cock as Christmas presents. That she desperately wanted to unwrap. With her teeth.

So this was desperate, throbbing need, she realized as she took off her shoes. The foyer's tile floor beneath her toes was warm but not hot. Self-heating floors? Awesome. Totally awesome.

The furniture was too nice to sit down on, at least when she was covered in the Irish countryside and knee deep in sheep shit. She trudged towards what she hoped was the bathroom, and not some ridiculously large closet, because peeing on complimentary slippers just might get her kicked out of the hotel, and then she'd be flat on her ass in the middle of Dublin. It wouldn't be the first time. Scumbag number three, a devilishly handsome man with lavender eyes that would put Elizabeth Taylor to shame, kicked her to the curb.

Literally. He jokingly tripped her on the way to up to his townhouse. She fell down six stairs, broke her tail bone, fractured her pelvis, and received two cuts that led to prominent scars. Scars she didn't want to explain to her father. One she covered with the tattoo Jareth was so fascinated by. It covered a starburst puncture wound courtesy of a broken wrought iron fence. The second one was long and thin, directly on the crease of her left hip and thigh. It was six inches from end to end, exactly the length of one very sharp piece of broken glass. It would've healed cleanly with no scarring, but the cut got infected just a few days after getting it stitched up.

Again, she got a tattoo to cover it. This one she could never show to Jareth. While she was lying there in the hospital, softly crying as the doctor removed the stitches from her skin, a thought struck her. Cruel as Jareth was, he never hurt her during that misfortunate trek through the Labyrinth. Scumbag number three, even as she hit her head on the concrete, chuckled at her plight. Of course she broke up with him, duh. When the infection finally cleared, she decided that there would be no more scumbags, and just one more tattoo.

Most people mistook the tattoo for cherry blossoms, since both flowers had five pink petals. But most people were into Japanese tattoos. Most people were also stupid. Nope, she went for something that reminded her of the Goblin King, the only scumbag who never betrayed her. Her basis for comparison, so to speak.

The tattooist was a girl, so she could appreciate floral tattoos, almost loving as she inked Sarah's skin. The twig covered the scar easily, but the four pink blooms with anemone like stamens stole the show.

They were peach blossoms.

Rubbing the tattoo through her grubby jeans, Sarah shook her head and forced her mind to focus on the present. So what if she had survived an emotionally abusive relationship? She'd been suckered back into one by the dragon in Versace.

The sweater was first to go. When it fell to the floor, she got a whiff of her skin and presumably her armpits. Did Jareth sweat this much after popping in and out of existence? Sarah felt like she was roasting. One look over her shoulder was enough to make her cringe. Her sweater looked like a dead dog. It certainly wasn't fit for a hotel room.

"I ain't fit for a bride in a fine brass bed," she burst out without thinking, surprised by the heavy twang accent she affected.

No, no she wasn't for a bride or a fine brass bed. Grinning, Sarah kicked off her shoes. Something was making her buoyant, happy. That same something made her sing.

"I'll never say no to you," she cooed under her breath. "Whatever you say, I'll do."

Dear God, she sounded terrible. Singing just wasn't her forte. Come to think of it, nothing was really her forte. It was just as well. She shrugged it off, and let Harve Presnell's character Johnny Brown from The Unsinkable Molly Brown croon away in her head.

_If you ask me to wait for a lifetime, you know I'll gladly wait for a lifetime or two. _

Shimmying out of her jeans while walking took some major concentration and a bit of dance talent, but she eventually freed her legs, sauntering towards the bathroom with a sway in her hips she couldn't explain. A minute ago, she was absolutely living, and now she was strutting?

_Just to look at you._

Without her clothes on, she felt so much cleaner, so much more polished, even if she smelled like a goat. Crossing the threshold into the bathroom, she reached behind her back, unclasping her bra with practiced fingers. She dropped the sturdy white cotton to the ground, wincing as the weight of her unbound breasts put pressure on her spine. Why anyone would get implants was beyond her. At a natural 34-D, they were heavy enough.

Again, the floor was heated, providing a stark contrast to the gray granite which covered the floor, the walls, even the ceiling. It was like walking into a dungeon. Granted, it was a dungeon with a garden tub made for nautical tons of bubble bath gel, plus the fluffiest white towels in existence, but still, a dungeon.

Her panties joined their underwire counterpart, and they were cleanest thing she'd taken off so far. Which was kind of gross, considering what body part they covered. It really said nice things about the quality of Levi's jeans.

"Oh God, I'm such a girl," Sarah groused as she sat on the platform surrounding the tub. She fiddled with the tap, grinning as both water and steam erupted from the faucet. "I'm gonna look like a lobster by the end of this soak. Awesome. Nothing is sexier than boiling alive. I think I want a pair of Frye boots."

'_Okay, so maybe I'm trying not to think of Jareth. Is there something wrong with that?'_

Yes there was. She'd had to think of him, he would be with her in a few hours. What would happen then? Was she still 'in the mood?'

'_Yep.'_

Oh yeah, she was still horny. If he walked in, she'd jump his bones until his pelvis cracked under the strain. Swinging her legs into the small pool, she winced as her feet stung from the heat. It distracted her from the ache between her legs. Sooner or later, they were going to have to talk about this. About their problems, wants and desires. He wanted her, she wanted him.

_I'll smile if you want me sad. I'll weep if you want me sad._

Again, Johnny Brown serenaded her with his silky voice. If she had to pick, she'd choose Jareth over the long-legged baritone, but she liked the song the slightest bit more than Jareth's ballroom ballad. It was more personal, more loving. Sure, being there for someone as the world fell nice was romantic, but promising forever and offering your free will as a sacrifice promised marriage. What girl didn't want to be married?

"I want to be married," she moaned as she reached down to splash water over her calves. "To someone honest, and hardworking, and more than able to take care of me. Someone who isn't kinky or cruel or high off his ass." Scumbag number one was a pothead, she kept forgetting that. He spent their rent money on Orange Bermuda Sunset. "Maybe even someone rich, but not too rich. I'm no gold digger."

'_Why won't you settle for happiness?'_

Gasping, she marveled at the line. Though the line was originally spoken by Johnny Brown, the voice in her head clearly belong to Jareth.

"No. I want to marry the right man."

'_What makes you think I ain't the right man?'_

"Because you aren't," she scolded the voice. "Because we aren't meant to be together, let alone married." But the man in her mind wouldn't be persuaded, not even when she slid into the bathtub, sinking down until the water covered her shoulders.

'_Today is tomorrow, if you want it so. I'll stay, or I'll go.'_

"Then **go**. Please leave me alone."

'_But I'll never say no.'_

"One of us has to say no. Your favorite word is yes. It can't be mine as well. Nothing would ever get done."

Using her toe, she twisted the tap until it turned off. The water was scalding, to the point of pain, but what was the point of taking a bath if you weren't cooked alive. The hotter the water, the longer that heat would last. Dunking her head under the water, she scrubbed her scalp with her fingers. Her corneas stung from squinting her eyes so tightly, but the water would outright burn them. By the time she popped back up, she was gasping for breath.

Sarah stayed in the tub for about a half hour, when the water started to chill. She'd wash her hair in the morning – Jareth hadn't sent her luggage with her, and she wasn't about to use icky, industrial-strength hotel shampoo. That stuff could strip tar off the highway.

Mechanically, she unplugged the tub, got out and patted herself down with a towel. For the first time ever, the tiles weren't cold, so she didn't break out into goose bumps. When she bought her own house, she'd really have to invest in the hotel's interior designer.

"What to do, Sarah?" she whispered as she dropped the towel, letting it pool at her feet. There was a robe hanging on the door, but she was alone. Defiling the beautiful hotel room with her naked body was thrilling. Naughty. Scandalous even.

A grandfather clock on the wall said that it was after midnight, and with a start, it hit her.

"I missed my birthday. My birthday was yesterday. I must've been so angry that I didn't realize it."

Surprisingly, it kind of hurt. Yeah, there were just as many Thanksgivings as there were birthdays, and she celebrated neither. But Jareth seemed so keen on the idea. He might've even bought a present.

"Okay, LESS PITY PARTY, MORE PIZZA." Sometimes, she just needed to yell at herself. Especially when she feeling down, even if it wasn't her birthday.

While she was in the tub, someone must have popped in with room service, because the dining room was neatly decorated, and her dinner was served. Pizza, champagne with strawberries, but no raspberry soufflé. Maybe they were bringing it later? Not that it really mattered. Staring at the linens and china, she realized she wasn't hungry. But she sure as hell needed to get hammered _fast_.

And then the door opened.

First the doorknob rattled, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand straight up. Then it turned and clicked. Her eyes widened. Finally, with a soft, gentle wind, it swung open. For one terrifying moment, anyone who was in the hallway could see her naked backside. It closed quickly, though she didn't have time to do much but spin around in terror.

"Sarah, I'm back. Have you eaten?"

Jareth looked tired and bedraggled. He even had four days worth of stubble growing on his normally flawless cheeks. The scruff was more golden than his hair, almost verging on the lightest shade of brown she'd ever seen. It was the same shade of his eyebrows. Where the hell had he been that he managed to start growing a beard? In jeans and hiking, with his hair shortened and flat, he looked almost… human. Like a normal man.

Okay, so more like a normal male model, but not like the Goblin King. It made being naked in front of him less frightening. Not much though, as he would always be a monarch, and she would always be naked.

'_Where the hell did __**that**__ theory come from?' _she thought as he turned around after kicking the mud from his shoes.

"Forgive me for being late, I was called away to the Goblin King… dom."

His chest sagged as his breath rapidly vacated lungs, that blue-brown gaze raking her from head to toe. Surprise kept her from covering her breasts or pushing her sodden bangs off her forehead. Absently, she was thankful she'd waxed her bikini line recently and that her legs got shaved that morning. She tried to remember if she'd shaved her underarms. It was a silly thing to worry about, considering her arms were pinned to her sides. Then there was _the fact that she was naked._

Water dripped down her legs onto the nice wooden floors. Drip, drip, fucking drip. Drip.

This was awful. For the first time ever, being naked and wet had only left to one hell of a Mexican stand off. Jareth was all but grimacing at her bare skin. That was nice of him.

"Sarah," he huffed, the air returning to his chest in heaving gulps. "Either go into the bedroom and get dressed now, or I'm likely to do something I will regret in the morning."

He would regret it? It being sex, most likely. A slight smile flickered across her mouth.

"I won't," she whispered tremulously.

Jareth must've taken that as the magic word, because he strode forward, fisted his hands in her wet hair, and pressed his open mouth against her. Sarah parted her lips just as his tongue slipped past her teeth. She slung her leg around his hip, rising onto her toes so she could press her hips against his. He hardened quickly, faster than anyone she'd ever dated. Perhaps they hadn't been as attracted to her as Jareth was.

Something was wrong though. As warm as he was, as good as his mouth tasted, she felt so gross. Her brow furrowed as his mouth left hers to nip her neck. It wasn't shame, it was more corporeal than that. One of his hands gripped the thigh wrapped around his hip, rubbing the back of it from her knee to her ass. His palm was gritty and moist.

He was dirtier than she had been! _Yuck!_

"No, wait," Sarah urged, even as she rubbed herself against him. "Not here. Not here."

His breath puffed against her face as he pulled back. "The bed then?"

He wanted to wiggle his unclean body on sheets that cost more than designer boots?

"No…" Placing her hands on his cheeks, she dropped her heel back to the floor, needing balance. "Um… the bathtub. It's nice."

"But you've already bathed?"

'_You haven't, pig. I'm gonna need another one with you getting your dirt all up in my __**business**__.'_

"It's a big tub, a freaking pool really. With jets and everything. It could fit a rugby team. It's more than enough for us. Plus a bottle of champage?" And the filth that was just radiating off of him. Had he been rolling in a barn stall before he found her?

Smiling at him, she hoped he mistook her hesitance for modesty and not disgust. He must've bought it, because he grinned impishly, and didn't complain when she backed away.

"Don't keep me waiting," he urged in a sing-song voice before marching off to the bathroom. He stripped off his windbreaker and tossed it at a wall with the same efficiency he used when antagonizing Hoggle.

Really, what was his problem with her little friend the dwarf, she wondered as she jogged over to the bottle of champagne. With college-practiced hands, she popped the cork off, placed it on the table and grabbed the bowl of strawberries. They wouldn't be needing glasses.

"We won't be needing clothes either! Oh wait, I'm not wearing any."

"_Saaaarahhhh_."

'_I'm getting' laid! I'm getting' laid!'_

A quick swig of champagne and she felt even better about the way the evening was headed. Ah, good ol' fashioned liquid courage.

"I'm here, Jareth." There was no bashfulness on her part, not even when she arrived in the bathroom, where Jareth was lounging like a king in the tub. He had his arms propped on the sides, and the stubble was gone. There was fog on the surface of the water, which looked more silvery than it should've, more reflective and shinier.

"So that's fairy magic?" she whispered coyly as she padded over to the tub. "I kinda like it."

Jareth smirked lazily. "I'd hoped you would. Now get in."

God, he was so sexy, lounging in the tub, naked, his smooth baritone voice ever so gravelly. How could she avoid such a command? He was a king, and kings always got their way.

"Want some?" Perching herself on the edge of the platform, she dangled the bottle in front of his face.

"Only if you want to give it to me."

* * *

That proved it. He was an idiot when it came to Sarah. But she was just so… so… _naked_. And wet. And alluring. She wanted him.

The few days he'd spent apart from her were hell. Four children, all at once, wished away a younger sibling. Since they couldn't all go at once, nor navigate the Labyrinth at night, he had to wait as each of them ran it over the four days of his absence. Thanks to the marvel of time manipulation, only a few hours passed Aboveground.

_'But no matter. I'm about to get laid.'_

He hadn't made love in so long. For the gods' sake, he was practically bred to be oversexed. He was a fairy, one of the most attractive and talented bed partners in the entire Underground. Females lined up in droves for a chance to spend a night with him. Never a lifetime, of course. They knew he wasn't the marrying kind.

Then he met Sarah, who was even more willful and stubborn than he was. When he first met her, as a child of thirteen, he knew she was special. Back then, she was tall for age, so he thought she was older. Even when he found out the true measure of her years, that didn't make her any less remarkable or desirable. So he gave her the book, planting it in her schoolbag when she wasn't looking. The rest was history.

"I think you're thirsty," a very much grown-up Sarah cooed, almost like a dove. But doves didn't drink champagne straight out of the bottle. Her rosy lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle, and as she tipped her head back, the muscles in her throat tensed and relaxed as she took a hearty swig. He thought she was going to offer him some, but she did no such thing.

With an impish grin, she brought the bottle in front of his face, and upended it. Fizzy champagne bubbled down his neck and chest, cascading over his nipples into the steaming water. He gasped at the ice cold shock. The change in sensation was almost painful. Had he always been this sensitive?

Hissing, Jareth let his eyes get to wandering. He'd yet to Sarah completely naked, and he wondered why he waited so long. She was glorious. Every inch of her was perfection.

Except _not_. On her hip was another tattoo. Some people were addicted to getting tattoos, but Sarah didn't seem like that. She didn't have an addictive personality.

'_Oh God,'_ he thought to himself in wonder. _'They're peach blossoms.'_

Jareth looked up with hunger in his eyes, something must've seen. Because as soon as their gazes met, she picked up a strawberry and held it to his mouth.

"Bon appétit, Jareth."

* * *

Woohoo! SEXY TIME!

But not in this chapter. In the next.

No, I don't speak French or Spanish or German. Those translation come courtesy of Yahoo! Babel Fish.

There will be sex in the next chapter as long as you guys review.


	5. Chapter 5

Egyptian cotton sheets really were a marvel of textile engineering. They were fresh like spring water and soft as silk without being slippery. No matter Sarah much they tossed, turned and frolicked during the night, she didn't heat up at all; nor did she get sweaty. It was like they were mythical sponges, absorbing moisture without getting sticky. And when she finally fell asleep, with Jareth curled protectively around her, she rested easily, cool and calm and certain about one thing.

She loved Jareth.

Morning came, and the sun sifted through the opaque curtains lazily. The mellow light was gentle as opposed to insistent, and the warmth had her stretching languidly before she even opened her eyes. Sarah flexed her feet, popping her instep as she arched her chest and belly forward. A lingering stiffness in her shoulders had her wincing, and she blearily wondered at the ache. Last night hadn't gone at all like she expected. Not the bit before the sex, but the sex itself.

Knowing that he was brash, abrupt and fiercely passionate, she expected to be roughly fucked senseless by a dominant Goblin King. But Jareth was slow and sweet, and there was so much more touching than she could have ever prepared for. He treated every inch of her skin as if he could read her thoughts and emotions like Braille. His lips followed his fingers like a bewildered puppy. No freckle or scar was insignificant to him, but her tattoos absolutely fascinated him, especially the one of her hip. He licked it, kissed it, asked about it, and declared it beautiful. It was pretty obvious that he knew the flowers were peach blossoms.

Most men were driven insane by lust, but Jareth became a poet. She felt like both his muse and the paper to his pen. He was so thorough and meticulous in his attentions that she was frightened that he knew all of her secrets – though she hadn't spoken many words at all. It was mostly odd noises and guttural pleas, from both of them. Everything he did to her she did right back to him, if only to be fair.

Smiling dreamily, her lashes fluttered as she considered blinking. Jareth was completely still and she didn't want to wake him, not when he'd been sleeping so poorly. If sex was the only way to get him off to bed, then whatever. Like she'd complain. Still, it was time to get up, and unfortunately make some tough decisions.

Sarah stroked her palm over the long-fingered, square hand on her tummy and sleepily opened her eyes. The hand curved over her belly tensed briefly, its fingers flexing against her skin. Jareth's pinky briefly dipped into her belly button, but then his hand went limp as he relaxed. He let out a sort of breathy sigh and turned onto his side, giving her the space she needed to get out of bed. It was a slow process, swinging her legs over the side of the bed while avoiding any major aches or pains. Conscientious a lover as he was, they still went at it for over four hours, trying out positions she hadn't even heard of – nothing dangerous or humiliating, but certainly new and slightly backbreaking. Sleep was a blessing after all that fun.

Her feet slid on the cold wooden floor, and she did more drunken stumbling than walking, but when she got to the suite's kitchenette, her mind was bright with clarity. This whole house-hunting charade had to end. In no way could she pursue a relationship with him if he was her boss. If she did, she would no better than both her parents – Linda's infidelities began with her director at the community theatre and Irene hired Robert (although he quickly outranked her through promotion).

She'd have to quit, plain and simple. Then they could be boyfriend and girlfriend, and just be happy for a while. There'd be time to figure things out later, when he found a new realtor and a house that he liked. That would give her enough time to go back to school and finish up her degree. Though she knew her thoughts were getting wildly ahead of her, sheer euphoria was making it impossible to recognize those thoughts as way too eager.

In the drawer underneath the microwave were Post-It notes, pens, sharpies, a menu from the hotel's restaurant, and a directory of local restaurants that delivered. Because obviously walking downstairs to get some awesome food uses too much energy for the extremely rich and lazy. She pulled out the Post-Its and sharpie, placing them on the counter as she thought about 'The List.'

Every woman had one, and Sarah's was pretty extensive. She started it when she was fifteen, just one day after running the Labyrinth. The first rule was simple.

_1. Never do that again. Ever. Seriously. Just learn to put up with your parents' and half-brother's bullshit._

Years passed, and the list gradually became longer.

_7. Your mother will never love you the way you need her to. Let her go._

_13. No putting on makeup in the dark. Your eyebrows were tinted purple._

_15. Breaking up hurts. Breaking your leg hurts more. Try not to run to your car after getting dumped in the future._

_18. You can't walk in six inch heels. Stick with flats or kitten heels._

_21. In the future, don't tell boys that the reason you chug Irish Car Bombs so quickly is because you have nearly no gag reflex. Dealing with blow job jokes is unbearable._

It was time to pen some new rules, if only to figure out how Jareth worked without resorting to the plot of some sleazy porno involving a boss and his secretary (which, admittedly, would make for one great bedtime role play). Lifting the sharpie to her mouth, she bit down on the cap and yanked the stylus out, and put pen to paper.

_New Rules!_

_DON'T SLEEP WITH YOUR BOSS._

_DON'T SLEEP WITH JARETH._

"At least until I quit," she whispered to herself. Smiling, Sarah capped the sharpie and tossed it on the stove. She needed to find out what time breakfast was served, that way she could bring some up for the two of them. Sex on an empty stomach was exhausting, and she planned on having a metric ton of sex before noon. Her dry spell was over, she wanted to shout to her old boyfriends. Yeah, Aidan deserved more than a Dear John letter, but they weren't in a relationship.

Without any fresh clothes to change into, Sarah hopped into the bathroom and put on one of the complimentary bathrobes. It was one of those super soft and fluffy terry cloth ones, the kind that added inches of unflattering bulk. She should've felt squeamish about traipsing down the hallway in nothing but a bathrobe, but as long as she kept the sash knotted tightly, it would be okay.

As she passed by the bed, she paused to look over her shoulder. Jareth was still asleep on his side, the covers pulled down around his waist. His pale back was marked with pale pink scratches, and light blue bruises dotted his shoulders – both wounds came courtesy of her nails and lips, naturally. Truth be told, she was incredibly proud of the damage she did. She wouldn't undo it for all the crystal in the world.

It certainly felt like Jareth had offered her all her dreams, but this time she planned on taking all of them. He hadn't exactly said that he loved her, but she was pretty sure he said he couldn't live without her.

With a completely justified bounce in her step, she took the room key from the bathroom sink, slipped it in her pocket, and quietly left the suite to find a bellhop she could brag to. Those little purple dots on her neck? Well, Jareth liked to a leave a love bite or two. Trusting in her ability to exhaust any man who snuck into bed with her, she finger-combed her sex-tousled locks and quietly snuck out. She didn't know how Jareth took his coffee, but she was fairly certain some whipped cream would come in handy.

* * *

The Goblin King's average morning consisted of tedious military reports, several treaty-singings with foreign dignitaries, breakfast with his many lady friends, and an endless line of citizens with petty complaints against their families, neighbors, and even the king. When he pursued Sarah romantically by way of employing her as his realtor (for no pay), things only got worse. She demanded that he be up on time, eat the same breakfast she did, and be as miserable as she was. If she was tired and unwashed, so was he. Most of the time he passed off her nagging as practice for bickering like an old married couple, but sometimes he wanted to knock her senseless… by kissing her until she shut the fuck up. It wasn't like he could toss her across the room like a goblin, not when she was prime queen material.

This morning, because nothing was happening after so much had happened, was heaven. He could see the faint red glow of the sun through his eyelids, he could hear his own heavy breathing, and against his chest, Sarah's smooth back relaxed and expanded with each breath she took. They were both tired in the best way possible, and he planned on sleeping until the apocalypse came.

Then Sarah moved off the bed, and after being momentarily startled by her absence, he reasoned her disappearance as a quest for a glass of water. Champagne could only go so far in quenching thirst, though it certainly made gave new meaning to the term 'bubble bath.'

Round one of their exciting evening was fought in the bathtub, and involved using champagne and strawberries for more than food. They were both fascinated by the contrasted of heated water and chilled alcohol running over tender skin, so more than once, she soaked his hair in the bubbled beverage – just to gauge his reactions, or worse, to tease him. The strawberries she was slightly more inventive with. Sarah used them as paint, coloring little patterns onto his neck that she suckled clean. His throat would probably be bruised for weeks.

And Aidan would just have to deal with it.

For a good part of the morning, Sarah forgave everything that happened in the woods. Forgave him for practically everything. She let him touch of every inch of her, let him use his mouth on her, and she reciprocated every hour. At one point he even confessed that he couldn't imagine a world without her, but it was quietly whispered as she was beginning to drowse. Even when things seemed to finally be settled, his heart was determined to remain protected. She hadn't told him anything of the emotions he inspired in her, save for 'oh yes, right there.'

A grin on his face, he moved his hand over the spot she had just left, running his fingers over the imprint left by her body. It was growing cold, and with no Sarah to warm it up, Jareth figured now was as good a time as any to get up and take part in the most manly of morning activities (that is, making it to the bathroom without tripping on a rug or something).

With several low groans at the numerous twinges his muscles felt as she sat up, Jareth slowly got up from the bed. Though Sarah had not intentionally hurt him, she rode him hard. Pun intended. But as he moved from the bedroom to the bathroom, he noticed it was suspiciously quiet.

Still naked, he took his first steps into the suites living area. With the sun blazing in through the window, the rooms dominating colors went from cream and ivory to pure gold. He stroked his eyes with his hand against the sudden brightness, still listening for signs of Sarah. The hand on his eyes went to his hair, and patted down any unruly cowlicks that arose during the night. He shivered a bit from the cold and from a growing sense of dread.

Sarah was gone. Her clothes were still scattered on the ground, so she hadn't gone far. But she wasn't there, and that was something to be concerned about. What could have taken her from the suite with such urgency that she didn't feel the need to tell him nor put on clothes? Granted, they were disgusting and he was happy that she took them off herself, but Sarah was remarkably modest.

Out of the corner of his eye, on the kitchen counter, he saw one of those yellow squares of paper was always jotting down notes on. Several times during his stay in Ireland, she'd used them to leave instructions for him. Those notes pissed him off to no end (how _dare_ she instruct a king), but sometimes they were little reminders that she was off to buy train tickets or breakfast. Thinking this was one of those notes, he marched off to the counter, anxious to find some trace of her. His hands trembling slightly, he ripped the note off the granite, and his heart stopped.

_New Rules!_

_DON'T SLEEP WITH YOUR BOSS._

_DON'T SLEEP WITH JARETH._

Don't sleep with him?

What the _fuck_ was this noise?

Jareth felt his throat dry up at the obviously just penned statements. They were written in Sarah's loopy, feminine scrawl and still stunk of whatever ink she used. In less than a second, he could imagine a smug, cruel-eyed Sarah standing gloriously naked as she dashed his dreams away in eleven words. _'Who's your darling now?'_ the girl-child in his mind sneered viciously. It didn't strike him as odd that in this daydream, Sarah had long hair held back by a clip, as opposed to the chin length bob she adopted in adulthood.

Crumpling the note in his fist, Jareth's mouth tightened into a bitter frown. So, she didn't want to sleep with him, hmm? Was he a poor lover? Did she still desire her beloved Aidan? Or was this her final act of revenge? Perhaps she had heard his whispered confession, and reveled in his weakness.

The man who tossed the paper ball into the sink was most certainly a fierce Goblin King. Jareth the lover was tossed aside because, dear gods, he was epically _pissed_. It was barely nine in the morning and he was already livid. Usually such rage was reserved for the poor goblin that woke him up before sunrise.

Fuck this shit sideways, he was done with the bitch. Done. Obviously, this was never going to happen, which was probably for the best anyways. Such a capricious minx would be a poor choice for a wife, and Sarah would never consent to being a mistress. Not that he was at all interested in that, because the previous night was only amazing, not mind-blowing. He could think of thirty women who were better lovers than Sarah Williams, and none of them had objections to sleeping with him.

His anger stewing, he barely heard the door opening, but he did hear Sarah's eager voice announcing her presence. In his rage, he didn't notice that her enthusiasm seemed genuine.

"Good morning," she said with delight. Delight at her deception no doubt. He coolly assessed his former lover, raking his eyes over the voluminous white bathrobe and the two steaming cups of something she was holding. From the rich, earthy scent he could tell it was her beloved coffee. He hated coffee. He had never told her this, but in his mind, she did know. Hence, she wasn't bringing coffee for him, but someone else.

Maybe for Aidan.

"Fuck you, Sarah," he hissed as his eyes returned to her face. "Never speak to me again, do you hear me? Last night was a _joke_, and I never want to see you again."

There was a split second where all he could see was Sarah's distraught face, with its betrayed, agonized expression, but then he was gone; back in his chambers, in his familiar castle beyond the Goblin City.

And Christ, he _still_ had to pee.

* * *

"So how much do you want to take off?"

"How about all of it?"

For the fourth time that year, Sarah was at Dublin's finest salon for brokenhearted college girls, _Curl Up and Dye_. Sarah had already been there three times before, and each session cost her about four inches of hair and twenty-five pounds.

"We can take too much, otherwise if you break up again you'll be bald," the obviously gay male stylist said around the two hoops piercing his lower lip. "This was my _masterpiece_, Sarah," he quipped as he shook his blonde Mohawk-topped head.

"Just caught it off, Daniel," she muttered apathetically, looking coldly at her reflection in the mirror.

The stylist she frequented was a chatty Londoner who called himself Daniel Sticks & Stones. He was obviously one the punk heroes of Jean Paul Gaultier most fashionable wet dream, what with the red tartan kilt and long-sleeved Breton shirt. All he needed was a black latex corset with a coned bustier and he'd be a male version of Madonna. Hell, his drag persona _was _Madonna.

"We could do a Mia Farrow inspired, long pixie cut," he said as he ran polished fingernails over her scalp, pulling her trademark black locks away from her face. Once, she asked him to put in some highlights. Daniel refused and bitched that the only reason he dyed his hair blonde was that black hair made his face look too masculine. Otherwise he'd rock the shit out of some Midnight Evenings Blue-Black #2.

"I wouldn't look weird with that?" Sarah asked uncertainly, shifting uncomfortable under the leopard-printed styling cape strapped tightly around her throat. Daniel patted the top of her head and picked up a spray bottle.

"Your face is squarer than hers, so we'll make the layers longer over your forehead, and kind of give you side-swept Twiggy bangs," he said as he sprayed her hair with cold water. "If we cut softer layers around your ears and have it longer and choppier at your crown, it'll look soft and feminine as opposed to butch. I'll clip it short in the back so it's easier to style."

Sarah nodded her approval and slumped into the leather barber's chair as Daniel began combing the water throughout her hair. She just couldn't picture cutting her hair any shorter, especially into what Daniel was describing, since long hair seemed to be coming back into fashion (sans long feathered layers and crimped bangs).

As he worked some creamy product into froth in his hands, Sarah felt herself being lulled by the music coming from a juke box in the corner. It was some soothing, almost mystical rock song from an Irish band she'd probably never heard of; a fife and the faint hum of a violin could be heard under the bass, and every now and then the lead vocalist said something in Irish. It was probably something from Daniel's collection. He was always bringing in demo tapes from club bands, or playing old vinyl records from the 60's. The only thing the stylists listened to from the 80's was Madonna, so they had to supplement their music supply from other decades.

The scrape of Daniel's fingernails was soothing she was able to get lost in her own thoughts, and when he started snipping away at what remained of her hair she barely noticed it.

That morning at the hotel went from gold to shit in less than two seconds. She came back with breakfast on the way, two mugs of fresh Colombian coffee in her hands. She hadn't seen Jareth drink coffee before, but the kitchen was out of tea, strangely enough. Not really though. She overhead two maids talking about an awful Englishman who barged into the kitchen claiming his tea wasn't fit for the Queen's lap dogs, or some other bullshit. The chefs hid the tea out of principle.

Before she could say anything besides good morning, he jumped down her throat so quickly she thought she was being skull fucked. Then he was gone, and that was that. She did the longest fucking walk of shame ever, walking six blocks to the rail station for a forty-five minute train ride, and then another six blocks to her apartment.

Getting back to her real life was remarkably easy, considering she'd been gone for nearly a month. Sure, school hadn't started yet, but she thought more people would be concerned that she'd been, you know, kidnapped. The only ones who were truly frightened were her landlord, academic advisor, and Daniel (they were close friends and he frequently crashed on her couch). Everyone else thought she was finally taking a vacation, or at least having lots of crazy sex with a married man.

She was home for two days before she decided another ex-boyfriend haircut was in order, which pissed off Daniel. Her last ex-boyfriend resulted in him finally perfecting his version of Marilyn Monroe's iconic curls. Oh well. Horrible revelations called for drastic measures, her horrible revelation being the realization that Jareth was an asshole, plain and simple.

And that she was a fool to fall in love with him. So foolish that she needed to start over with a rocking haircut, and some new boy toy to show it to.

Maybe it was minutes, maybe it was hours, but after a quick sprits of hairspray, Daniel was yanking the cape off of her. Her head felt so light she was almost afraid to look in the mirror.

Though she shouldn't have been.

"Tada!" Daniel exclaimed as he tossed the cape onto an empty chair. She blinked rapidly to dispel her thoughts, and was both pleased and baffled by the woman looking back at her.

First of all, wow, she had a really square jaw and, like, no cheekbones. Well, not compared to Katherine Hepburn, or any other classically glamorous actress. It made her look young, honest and approachable, she kept telling herself. Second, her hair was _really_ short.

Daniel had styled it as promised. He cut it along a side part and kept her bangs longish, so they covered her forehead and eyebrows. She could probably tuck some of them behind her ears if she wanted. The locks on the top of her head were choppy but soft (he hadn't used hair gel, obviously), and those at the back of her head were cut close, save for those around her ears which were slightly longer.

She looked like some edgy, feminine lovechild of Edie Sedgwick and Audrey Hepburn, with way more boobs. But she didn't look like Sarah. She would though, in a couple of days when she'd worked most of her heartache out of her system.

"I think this is the sexiest haircut I've done in a _long_ time," Daniel cooed as he played with her newly shorn hanks. "You look like one of those ultra-hip Mod go-go dancers from the sixties. Not the slutty ones. The ones that that got to sleep with the Beatles. So, are we going out this weekend to celebrate the victory that is your hair?"

"Sure," she said after a moment. It would be nice to go out with normal people. Put some makeup on, maybe a new pair of high heels and go dance with a handsome stranger. Daniel missed her, she knew he did. Hell, he even called her parents asking about her.

"Alright then. Now, if you don't blow dry it, it'll lay flat like it is now. All you have to do is run some pomade through it and finger curl it, you'll be set."

He ran off to gather every product he used on her hair, and when he walked away, she let her smile drop as she uncertainly fingered the layers around her ears. The hair under her fingertips was very soft and healthy feeling. Since she didn't have to blow dry it, it would probably continue to feel that soft. Not blow-drying it would knock about an hour off her morning routine, so she could sleep in later.

Sleep in and not think about Jareth.

_It's very mod,_ she thought to herself, tucking what she could of her bangs behind her ear. _And I kind of look like Demi Moore when she had a pixie cut. Mine just looks a little more grown out. Less boxy and pushed forward too._

Daniel bounced right back with a goody bag of sample sized hair products and probably a little candy. Sarah carefully took the purple gift bag from him, wrapping her fingers around the white twine handles.

"Listen, sweetheart. This one's on me," he said sympathetically with a wry grin. It looked odd and insincere with the piercings, but the snake bites were new. "Whoever Mr. Wrong is, he obviously isn't worth it. He let you go."

Sarah smiled weakly, and after a brief hug, she got up from her chair and tugged on her red pea coat. It was numbingly cold that day, and fat flannel clouds were promising a slight flurry if not outright snow. For the first time in weeks, she put on long trousers, a pair of drainpipe jeans, which were almost as tight as Jareth's. Not that she'd ever take fashion tips from him.

Just a few steps out the door and her ears were already burning from the cold. Hunching her shoulders up around them, she turned to the window so she could wave goodbye to Daniel. She grinned as merrily as she could, but as she raised her hand, Daniel's eyes grew wide, and suddenly he started gesturing with his arms. He looked like he either wanted her to duck or come inside.

The next few seconds instantly passed in a blur. There was a noise, like the loudest thunderclap she'd ever heard (it sent her ears ringing), and then a quick wave a searing heat blasted against her back. The world flashed white, brighter than the sun, and then everything went black.

* * *

Jareth had never been in a hospital before, but he had been in several wars, and knew that medics were invaluable resources. He also knew punching them in the mouth wasn't the best way to ask for answers, but boy did I want to.

"I am saying I _don't_ understand," he hissed viciously at the old grey doctor as he impatiently dragged him out of Sarah's room by the elbow. "She was in the middle of a crowded intersection. How could this have happened?"

Dr. Connor Murphy withered under his glare, his lower lip nearly disappearing beneath his handlebar mustache. "Sir, even in the most peaceful of times, there are… psychotic young people. Who are members of the Irish Republican Army. Your wife unfortunately walked past a targeted bar."

Sneering, Jareth pushed the man away from him. "I will kill you and reanimate your corpse, just to kill you again should she die."

The sniveling doctor ran off to probably clean the piss from the inside of his thighs, leaving a nurse to aide Sarah. Nurses he trusted. Nurses healed out of sheer kindness. It certainly wasn't for the awful pay and constant sexual harassment.

Looking around, he was thankful couldn't say he was thankful Sarah had a private room. Gurneys, hospital beds and wheelchairs lined the walls of the hospital's trauma unit. Most of the patients in them had minor burns, scrapes, and concussions. Some bandages and ice packs would get most of them back on their feet.

They all had the sense to duck, or hadn't been in or near the bar. A dozen or so people, like Sarah, weren't so lucky. Or maybe they were. The total body count was currently at six, though it was probably much higher. Bombs weren't very picky murderers.

Forgetting that Ireland wasn't always a peaceful place was easy when they were in the countryside. Farmers, blacksmiths and fisherman all went to work on horses or in boats, so most of the time, it was like stepping into the past. Though most of them abhorred the English, they were quite content to mumble and call Sarah dirty names (for consorting with her English-accented king).

In cities however, hating neighbors was easier, as was obtaining certain chemicals. So when an English businessman scoops up a beloved pub, it was easier to send a message than, you know, _buy it back_. Such a show of aggression was disturbingly common in Northern Ireland and England, but not necessarily Dublin, hence he hadn't worried about Sarah's safety.

Staring at the huddle wounded lining the beige walls of the corridor, he knew he should've. Judging their agony was easier than looking at Sarah, who, for the first time in her entire life, looked like one of the sleeping waifs from her fairy tales.

"You can come in, sir," the nurse announced unexpectedly. "I've finished redressing her wounds, and she's been given a fresh round of sedatives. She's comfortable for now."

His eyes were closed as he turned around, and the first thing he saw when he opened them was the nurse's nurturing expression. "She's stable, and I think she'd want you with her."

"Of course," he replied quietly with a nod, walking back to Sarah's beside. The nurse had left a stool for him and after a few heavy footsteps, he was seated at Sarah's side.

Some god was kind to her that day. Since she was facing away from the blast, her face was still recognizable. Yes, the right side was freckled with scratches, her eyes were bruised and the bridge of her nose had a deep gash running across it, but she still looked like Sarah. The most painful injury was probably her split lower lip, but the nurse said lip balm would keep it from cracking or drying out.

"Precious thing," he admonished, lifting her limp hand. "You have the greatest talent for getting into horrible situations. I really should lock you in an oubliette whenever you're feeling adventurous."

Slowly, he rubbed his chin against her knuckles, thankful he'd shaved that morning. To enter the hospital, he had to look human and be related to Sarah in order to visit her. Looking human was easy. He just dressed and styled himself as he had for the past three weeks. Being related to Sarah was a bit harder, yet with some magic, Sarah's records listed him as her husband and emergency contact.

"We're going away now," Jareth whispered against her fingers, dropping a kiss there. He didn't know how the machines worked, but he figured if he did everything carefully and moved quickly she'd be fine.

He carefully withdrew the needles from her arm, first from her elbows, then from her wrist. They didn't drip at all, not when he was able to pause time. With time paused, the world was silent. All that existed was Sarah and he.

Then off came the tubes from her nose and throat. Slowly peeling off the tape from her upper lip, he placed it on the pillow next to her. Now that she'd cut off all her hair, he didn't have to worry about it getting tangled.

That's why he saw her. When he checked in on her, she was getting her hair chopped off. At first he mourned the loss, but then he rejoiced in it. When he asked about her last haircut, she said it was in response to breaking up with her last boyfriend. Girls with broken hearts cut their hair to regain control of their lives and start anew. Perhaps she cut her hair this time for the same reason – because she was brokenhearted. And if she was heart sore, then maybe it was because of him.

After unclipping all the wires connected to her hands, he silenced the machines, started time back up, and transported them to a place where she could heal quickly and rest for a while. He knew she'd like it. Even if he picked it out himself.

(break)

Holy _fuck_, she had the most hellish headache ever. Or she did. She wasn't so sure anymore. It was bad. She knew it was. But now she felt dandy. Soft, cuddled, and warm. Better than she felt in years. Something was chewing on her fingers, but whatever it was, it had no teeth. Maybe it was her neighbor's old cat or something.

Except her neighbor didn't have a cat, and she never made it home that afternoon.

Wide awake, her eyes snapped open, and several things fell into place. She was lying on her left side, laying on a downy mattress, swathed in soft linens and surrounded by pillows. The shirt she was wearing didn't belong to her, it felt way too expensive, and her legs were bare. So were her lady bits. In fact, she wasn't wearing any underwear. Creepy. What was chewing on the fingers of her right hand wasn't so creepy though. Hell, it was downright adorable.

"Oh, it's you," Sarah breathed in wonder. The little black lamb from the field had pulled her hand from the bed and was delicately suckling her fingers. It gave out a little high-pitched bleat around her knuckles and bobbed its head. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Not dead," someone said as a pair of knees came into view beside the lamb's head. A pair of knees in very skinny pants. "But no doubt very rested. You've been asleep for three days."

The skinny-panted knees belonged to Jareth, and when he knelt down, the lamb released her fingers and immediately started nuzzling the Goblin King's side. A short-haired, button-down shirted Jareth slung his arm over the lamb's back and cuddled it to his side. His eyes still on hers, he tipped his chin down and kissed the top of the lamb's curly head.

"Come on, Geraldine. Up on the bed," he urged softly, hoisting the noisy lamb under his arm. Sarah had the smarts to scoot over to the right side of the bed for the two of them, blushing slightly as the sheets moved against her oddly smooth legs.

"You named the lamb Geraldine and shaved my legs. Nope, _not_ dead." Sarah couldn't help but smile as Geraldine wiggled her docked tail, before curling up on her side between them. "I didn't know you liked sheep."

Jareth smiled down at her. "I like this one."

Smiling fondly, she dug her fingers into Geraldine's warm, wooly side. The lamb bleated and turned her head towards Sarah, her ears and mismatched eyes focused intently on the young woman's face.

"Jareth," she said quietly. Jareth's brows rose towards his hairline as he nestled back into the pillows. "Are you deaf in your right ear?"

His mouth dropped and his eyes widened, but then he grinned wryly, going limp against the headboard.

"You have a very good memory," he chuckled, rubbing his right ear. "I hide it well, don't I? Most women think it's flattering when you stare at their lips when they talk. I do it because, if a party is too loud, I need to see what they're saying."

"Magic can't heal it?" He shook his head once.

"It's a birth defect, not an injury." Lying down, he turned onto his right side, tucking that ear firmly into the pillow. He placed his hand over hers, interlocking his fingers into Geraldine's wool. "Magic healed your injuries though."

The warmth and smoothness of his hand, and the luminosity of his skin brought her back to the night they made love for the first time, and the inevitable haircut it led to. A haircut that ended in… Oh God.

"I nearly died, didn't I?" she whispered, her voice trembling. Jareth's hand tightened around hers.

"Not nearly. You just had a mild concussion and some cracked ribs. I healed you, but you needed time to rest." Slowly, he pulled his hand away from the now sleeping lamb. "I could never let you die," he said before kissing her knuckles. "I love you too much for that."

Most women would cry at that. Sarah wasn't most women.

"I love you," she said tenderly. "Wanna have sex?"

"Most definitely. But not in front of the baby!" he answered as he covered Geraldine's eyes.

"Then put her in her crib. Mommy's home."

* * *

"This is a beautiful house," Sarah remarked as she reclined against Jareth's chest. He wrapped his arms around her stomach, resting his cheek against her head. Her long, thick tresses caressed his throat as he leaned back into the cushioned lounge chair they were cuddling in. They were sitting beneath the willow tree in their front yard, a cheery fire crackling in a copper fire pit as they simply looked at their new home.

He knew she'd love it. It was a proper country cottage with stone walls and shingled roof. It had every modern convenience (save for a television – he hated televisions), rose bushes in front of the porch, and a barn out back for their horses. There was a stall for Geraldine, but she slept inside most nights. Their property was large enough for her (and the horses) to wander around, and it was fenced in, but she preferred to stay close.

She was close now, sleeping at the foot of the lounge chair. She was still a lamb, no bigger than a cocker spaniel, so her sleeping arrangements weren't a problem yet. Sarah treated her with adoration, and Geraldine responded in kind. Really, life was good.

"I have to go back to America soon."

Except for that.

Frowning, he kissed her crown and buried his nose in her neck.

"I know," he said in answer. "And I know that you'll return here at night to sleep. That spell is simple."

"You'll have Geraldine to keep you company."

He smiled into her hair.

"And someday my wife."

* * *

No sexy time. Sorry. Really, this chapter was a Debbie Downer. But the epilogue will have sexy time!

If you review.


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